My favorite man was my dad. He still is, but now he lives on through letters, songs, home videos and memories. When I think of my dad, I think of salt water, sandwiches, tennis rackets, boats and his hands that were usually caked with dirt and ink from a long day at work. I remember the tall house he built for my mom, brother and me. I think of arms that protected me from everything and a voice telling me to take deep breaths when I was crying hysterically as a little girl (and even as an adult). My father was fascinated by nature and kind to innocent beings like animals and children. He taught me kindness by being kind. He was a man that did good deeds for people who could not service him in any way. This is rare in a world where greed is commonplace.

He was the epitome of selfless.

I lost my father to heroin when I was 19. Today, I am 22 and I am still trying to put into words how his parting from this world affected me. Losing a parent at a young age is always awful, but when you lose one to drugs, you experience something different. The days, months and years that lead up to their death are often filled with ugly altercations, deception, theft and unimaginable feelings of betrayal. Sometimes, there are no interactions at all. Sometimes they disappear (as he often did).

Up until now, I have avoided telling people how I lost my dad. When co-workers or classmates would ask how he died I would reply with “heart attack.” This response ceased all other questions. It was simple and it did not ruin his reputation in the eyes of those who knew him prior to his relapse. I cared very much about preserving his image in my town as a good man. I still do.

However, a large part of me feels that by not telling his story and hiding his biggest struggle, I am not accepting and loving him for who he was out of fear for what other people will think. By not being truthful, I am also depriving others who have experienced similar horrors of hearing my story. Here is the truth about addiction: the addicted are not themselves. The man who my father turned into while he was on drugs was not the man that I knew growing up. A majority of the things that made him my favorite disappeared while he was on drugs. It is only because I knew him so deeply throughout my whole life that I have been able to know this.

My dad left this world in a horrifying manner. He is not the only one. My father is one of many who were robbed of their humanity by a drug. Many will call drug addiction a choice; I call it a mistake. Nobody ever deliberately chooses to deface their own name and soil all of their accomplishments for the hell of it.

Just because my dad lost his battle does not mean he didn’t fight. He had battled drug addiction even before I was born and managed to get clean and stay clean for over 10 years through the use of Narcotic Anonymous. During those years, he gave my brother and I a magical childhood with my mother by his side. When I was a kid, he spoke as an advocate for D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) at various schools and always warned me about the dangers of drugs.

There is a sober side of my dad that police will never know. I write about his truly loyal and hard-working side now to revive what he lost during his final battle with addiction. Law enforcement saw my favorite man as a criminal, but what they never saw were the summer evenings he tossed around a baseball with my brother and I. They never saw him teach me how to ride a bike. They didn’t watch him marry my mother with the most prideful look that anyone has ever seen. They don’t know how he helped his grandmother up and down every step, and how she adored him.

My heart does not ache over the loss of a dead-beat, drug-addicted man. My heart aches over the loss of my wonderful, loving and cuddly dad. He is not the only bright-eyed, vivacious soul that was a person before he was gripped by the cycle of addiction. There are many you know, as you read this today that deserve help, not persecution.

None of us are infallible to the point where we should judge others in need.