Dear Dad,

This is it this time. No one is going to bail you out. Part of me knows you deserve it. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, right? But another part of me wants to feel sorry for you because you are, after all, my dad.

Although the more I think about it, the less of a dad you've become. First, it started with the lying. The empty promises you never remembered or never bothered with. Then came the avoiding me. Not answering my phone calls, not coming to my recitals and missing holidays.

Eventually, we developed a relationship thanks to my constant nagging. I was the only person naive enough to still be there at one point. You took advantage of my innocence. You didn't mind seeing me when I could drive to you. You didn't mind talking if I called first. You were glad to tell me stories about the old days because you didn't have to tell me the bad parts and I loved hearing about it because it's the closest I got to being in your world.

The older I got the more I learned about the past. But I kept making excuses. I kept telling myself that things were different now. And maybe for a while, they were. But anyone who's ever been around an addict knows that trust shouldn't come easily. And after two failed marriages, three relapses, seven kids, and countless lies, I should've seen the signs, but like I said, I was innocent. I was a kid and you were my dad. I didn't know that I shouldn't have trusted you.

But I did trust you. I let you in. I not only let you break down my wall, but I let you into my family. I let you around more innocent children. I should've known better and I will never let myself do that again, but it's not my fault. It's yours. And that's why I'm putting my foot down.

I understand why people say addiction is a disease; I've seen what it does to you, but what I don't understand is why you put yourself in the path of addiction to begin with. You are at fault. You are the one who picked up the needle. You are the one who drained everyone around you. You burned every bridge you crossed, including mine.

There are things I can understand, and I do, but some things are unforgivable. Shooting up after six years sober, with a random junkie, while your kids are in the house is unforgivable. Trying to take out credit cards in your one-year-old grandson's name is unforgivable. Putting your life at stake because you wanted a drink or two on top of the drugs, as if you weren't out of it enough is unforgivable. Giving me PTSD with panic attacks that are so bad I can't function for an hour without breaking down is unforgivable. Making me scared to take legal, necessary medication because I have seen the effect of addiction is outrageous. Giving me trust issues to the point where I don't feel comfortable talking to a therapist is unexplainable. But needless today those are a few of the reasons why I'm telling you goodbye.

I'm telling you goodbye because I don't want the police calling me asking if I know where you are. I'm telling you goodbye because I don't want to pray that this child you just introduced me to isn't yours. I'm telling you goodbye because I don't want to worry about my sisters finding you in the bathroom, unconscious because you did too much heroin. I am telling you goodbye so I don't have to explain to my son why his grandpa wears long sleeve shirts in one hundred degree weather. I'm telling you goodbye because I don't want to sit in the courtroom and listen to the judge take your kids and your freedom and send you to prison for ten years. I'm telling you goodbye because I want a life without having to warn everyone on holidays and birthdays about you.

With that being said, thank you for the lessons. Thank you for my sisters. Thank you for teaching me that I never want to lay a finger on drugs or alcohol. Thank you for teaching me the crazy amount of legal information I know. Thank you for teaching me that methadone and alcohol don't mix, even if you didn't care. Thank you for teaching me that I know better than that, and I do. I know that no one deserves to watch this. No one deserves to lay in bed at night worrying about whether or not you'd accidentally kill yourself tonight.

So my final words to you are this: I wish you the best. I wish you a stable recovery. I hope one day, years down the road, I see you at Wal Mart because as a child of an addict, you just want them alive and sober. I hope that we have small talk at my sisters' graduations and weddings. I hope that jail helps. And I hope that you are able to find yourself through this the way I did.

I love you, no matter what.

Xoxo, your daughter on the outside