It’s been almost eight years since you died by your hands.

I still think about you frequently. I look at old photographs from time to time. Sometimes I repeat the crude jokes you told me, since I have your twisted sense of humor.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how I hardly knew you. What I do know about you is that you were sick in mind, body and spirit. When you were young, you began battling demons. I will never know what those demons were, but I know they were dark, ruthless and unforgiving.

You were the last person I thought would die by suicide. You always seemed so sure of yourself. As I grew older and matured, I know you weren’t sure of anything at all. Not long before your death, you were a drifter. When you terminated your parental rights, you knew it’s because you weren’t willing or able to change. I know you were in pain and you drowned it with a cheap bottle of Kessler’s Whiskey, a joint, or a line of cocaine.

Dad, there is so much I want to say to you. For years, I was angry with you because you chose drugs over your family. You hurt your sons, you hurt me. You hurt mom mentally and physically. You hurt your mother, father and your siblings. Hurt people hurt people. This I know is true.

Now, there is nothing I can say to you. You are gone for eternity and it’s painful to know that addiction won. Addiction robbed you of your identity. You were far gone before your death. I don't know what happened early on in your life that caused you so much pain that you turned to drugs and alcohol to cope.

In college, I learned that addiction is a merciless, unforgiving and heartbreaking disease. As a child, I didn't understand how it changed your brain and altered your personality. I thought of you as a horrible person.

I used to tell you how much I hated you. I hated you because you would rather do drugs with your friends than take care of your family. I hated you because you refused to hold down a job to support your family. I hated you for making every holiday a living hell. I hated you because of how awful you treated all of us. You put us down, you called us hurtful names, and you abused us mentally and physically. You inflicted years of trauma that we are still working to overcome. We're still healing.

Now I know it wasn't you I hated. It was addiction I hate. I didn't know you. I couldn't know you. I don't think you even knew yourself. I don't think you ever had an opportunity to become the real you. Addiction doesn't excuse all of the pain you inflicted, though.

Since I hardly knew you, I don't know what it was like to grow up with a positive male role model. I am still battling low self-esteem and building my shattered self-confidence every day because of the hurtful words you would say to me.

Every time I heard the lyrics,"Fathers be good to your daughters, daughters will love like you do" from John Mayer's song "Daughters", I would bawl my eyes out. I wished for a father who was healthy, stable and loving every day. Sadly, you were not that father.

I don't know what thoughts went through your head when you decided to end your life by a rope in a garage during the early morning hours of June 17, 2009. I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was three days before my high school graduation open house. Your funeral was on that same day. As soon as the pianist began playing "Amazing Grace", I broke down.

I remember sobbing that morning as family and friends shared memories of you. Memories of a person I barely knew on a day that was meant to be a celebration, not a day of a loss and heartbreak.

I imagine your mind was filled with guilt, shame, regret and sadness. You hadn't spoken to or seen your children in almost a year since you couldn't pass a drug test. I think you were aware of your fate long before you died.

If you were alive and sober today, my hope is that we could have gotten to know each other. We were never all that close. The most authentic father-daughter moments we had consisted of laughing hysterically at an episode of "The Simpsons" or "Family Guy."

I believe it became too hard for you to live any longer and you felt suicide was your only option to break free of lifelong pain and misery that a chemical dependency inflicts on a human being.

If there is an afterlife and you're there, I want you to know that your children are happy and healthy. We are thriving, we are healing. We are survivors.

I hope you are finally at peace, dad. Despite all of the pain, I wish you were still here. You are missed. I forgive you and I love you.

Author's Note: If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide, please call the Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or visit their website.