Maybe there isn’t such a thing as a “normal childhood”, or maybe there is- at least aspects of one. Nobody gets blessed with a perfect family, fighting, personal battles, money issues, the list goes on and at least one thing plays a role in every family. My issue unfortunately was addiction, not mine but my fathers. My fathers struggle with drug addiction occurred shortly after I was born. Though this is when everyone started to notice, so it could’ve been prior to my birth. I grew up around my father constantly leaving, whether it was a week or a year. His absence solely depended on whether he was on a drug binge or sentenced to jail for something drug related. I didn’t grow up thinking this was okay, but it was never a shock when he went missing either. I started to “understand” what was going on around the age of 6, or whatever a 6 year old could possibly understand. As I got older I stopped happily counting down the days until my dad came home, and I stopped getting my hopes up that he ever would. My confusion led to anger because I couldn’t grasp the fact that someone couldn’t get better, better for themselves or at least for their own daughter. My anger was initially followed by curiosity; if drugs are known to be severely addictive and tear families and lives apart, why would my own dad even try them? Whatever the reason he is still proof that even a macho man like himself, isn’t as powerful as the hold that drugs possess. My mom helped me get passed the grudge that I would hold over my father, while also trying her hardest to never shield me from my father’s mistakes when I asked about them. I admired the openness that my mother portrayed about my father because I was always intrigued about what he was doing or where he was. It helped me understand him better, without actually having to see with my own eyes what he was really doing when he’d leave home.