As long as I can remember, my dad was an addict.  It wasn't something we talked about or something I fully comprehended.  His moods were ever changing.  One second he would be laughing and the next I would be pinned against the wall fearing whatever punishment he thought of.  Most of the time it would be the wrong look on my face or the wrong tone of voice or not enough praise for his food that would send him over the edge.  I can't even describe how he physically, emotionally, and mentally abused me.  For a time I was known as "it" in my house.  For a long time I blamed myself and thought if only I could do better that maybe the beatings wouldn't come, but they did anyway.  I was a straight A student and extremely involved in extracurriculars.  Everyone thought my home life was perfect and were shocked when my parents filed for divorce.  Still, I didn't understand that he was an addict.  I didn't realize that all those nights he claimed to be working until 2 am, he was probably at the bar.  On weekends he would hide Crown Royal whiskey bottles in the garage and cupboards and he could easily go through a 24 pack in a day.  I still remember my mom crying by the sink as she found a bottle stashed in one of the cupboards, but tried to act like it was nothing.  My father's health started to decline and he had to have his colon removed.  After that, he stayed home all the time and found a doctor that we nicknamed "the candy man" because he would hand out painkillers to just about anyone who asked for them.  All of the money growing up would be gone and I still cannot figure out where it went.  We never once paid for rent on the house my grandparents had bought for us.  My grandparents were well off and had a soft spot for my dad, but they didn't realize that they were feeding his addiction.  When my parents got divorced, I chose to live with my mom.  My brother didn't really have a choice and instead it was up to lawyers to sort out.  Because my grandparents had money, they paid for the best lawyers and despite having a history of addiction and abusive behavior, my brother went to live with my dad.  From then on we remained separated.  The addiction to pills got worse and my grandma kept handing my dad thousands of dollars for prescription medications.  In 2008 my aunt died from breast cancer and the following year my grandpa died from lung cancer.   Not too long after, my dad claimed to have terminal cancer.  He was seeing some experimental doctor that my grandma was paying for.  I was able to distance myself from it and had little contact with my dad.  Then in February of this year, I received a call that my father was really sick.  Because I live out of state and had just started a new job, I wasn't sure whether or not to go.  My son woke up saying he had a really bad feeling and was scared.  It was in that moment, I knew it was the end for my dad and that I had to go.  Everyday I stayed at the hospital.  I watched as he sweat and shook and was completely delirious from withdrawals.  When the doctors came in to discuss his condition, I asked about the cancer and they confirmed there was no cancer.  It was something I had already suspected, but it hurt that he would lie about having cancer when his sister and father both died of cancer.  My brother finally came to me and told me how bad it had gotten.  Not only had my father been taking morphine and other prescription painkillers, but over the counter medication like Nyquil at an increased dose.  I finally broke the silence on my dad's addiction and told the doctor.  They took him off of the pain medications and planned to have him go to a rehab facility.  I thought he was going to get better and have a year left, so I went back home.  He was released from the hospital and my grandma instead of taking him to rehab, took him in to her home.  The doctor placed him on antidepressants.  The very next day he was gone.  My whole world was turned upside down, but not for the reasons I thought.  I didn't miss him, which left me confused.  How could I not miss my father?  But anyways, because there was no will, my brother and I had to sort through the estate and the house.  I was warned the house was in bad shape, but I had no idea just how bad.  Right in the doorway were pills all over the floor, empty NyQuil packages, and mail piled knee high.  I was suddenly living a reality TV show about hoarding.  In the living room the Christmas tree was up with no ornaments, just pill bottles in the tree.  Boxes were piled up on the couch and all over the place.  The hallway was completely covered with his shitty underwear.  The bathroom sink and toilet were filled with black water.  In his bedroom, I found boxes of fireball candies that were half eaten.  Drawers were falling out and exploding with papers.  The basement walls were covered in mold from when it had flooded with sewage water.  Not a trace of my childhood home, which was emmaculately clean could be found.  The saddest part was all of the pill bottles.   There were duffle bags of pill bottles, packages in the mail with pill bottles, and more pill bottles in every drawer, coat pocket, and crevice to be found.  I found confirmation that my father had been on morphine that was 2-3 times the normal dose since I was a little girl.  These images are burned in my mind.  My whole childhood is coming back to me, images from the house, and my father's withdrawals.  I wake up with horrible nightmares and costantly feel as if I'm going to have a panic attack.  I'm strugging to make sense of everything.  I've sought out counselling, but I'm not sure if it is helping.  Maybe talking about it with others who can relate will help.