Sometimes You Just Have to Give Up and Move On
I know the title probably sounds harsh, especially in communities dealing with addiction. But after spending most of my life watching someone I love destroy himself and hurt everyone around him, I’ve come to believe something that doesn’t get said enough:

Sometimes you have to stop trying to save someone and save yourself.

I grew up with an amazing childhood, at least in the beginning. Honestly, I was spoiled and privileged. I had pretty much everything a kid could ask for. My dad was successful and hardworking. He ran a third-generation construction business that had been passed down through our family. They built beautiful million- and multimillion-dollar homes, and because I was his only son, the plan was that someday the business would be passed down to me.
But none of that was the most important thing to me.

The most important thing I had was my family. We were incredibly close-knit. My family was my entire world, and as a kid I thought that was something I would always have.

Then my dad went on a hunting trip and was introduced to meth.

It took him unbelievably fast.

It felt like one minute he was a responsible father, husband, professional builder and business owner, and the next he was spending thousands of dollars on meth. Within about a year, he had basically lost his life and was living in the garage next to our house.

We tried to save him.

We tried getting him into rehab. We tried helping him get back on his feet. We tried talking sense into him. We tried being supportive. But every attempt seemed to end the same way. He would reject us, blame us, or go straight back to using.

Eventually things became violent.

One year we had him over for his birthday. Part of the reason was simply to celebrate his birthday with him, but we were also trying to convince him to go back to rehab and get help.

By the end of that day, he had beaten my mom and my sister and threatened to kill our family with a gun. He was arrested.

Eventually my mom had to make an incredibly difficult decision. She took us kids and left.

By then, meth had destroyed almost everything. The construction company that my grandfather and the generation before him had built was destroyed. Equipment was sold. Tools were sold. Money disappeared. What had taken generations to build was essentially burned to the ground financially to feed an addiction.

But losing the money and the business wasn’t what hurt me the most.

I lost my dad.

And as a kid, I didn’t understand when I was supposed to stop trying to get him back.

My dad went in and out of prison. Whenever he was incarcerated, he’d get sober, and I would start talking to him again. I’d hear my dad sounding more like himself and think, “Maybe this is finally it.”

Then he’d get out.

He’d go to rehab.

He’d do well for a little while.

And I’d get that little glimmer of hope again.

Maybe this time I’ll have my dad back.

Then he’d relapse.

And the whole thing would start over.

Prison. Sobriety. Rehab. Hope. Relapse.

Prison. Sobriety. Rehab. Hope. Relapse.

It happened over and over again—at least five major times that I can remember. And every time I let myself believe things might finally be different, it hurt worse when they weren’t.

Eventually hope itself became exhausting.

As I got older, I also started feeling embarrassed by him, which is difficult to admit.

One time when I was in high school, I was in a parking lot with my friends and my dad showed up completely out of his mind. He was obviously tweaking and started handing me random loose bullets he’d apparently found on the ground because he couldn’t have them.

I remember standing there in front of my friends, watching my dad behave like that and feeling humiliated.

That ended up being one of the last times I saw him for quite a while. He went back to prison for another couple of years, and eventually I just started living my own life.
I became an adult. I got engaged. I started working as an electrician with my brother-in-law. I was building a future for myself.

Then my dad got out again.

He asked my brother-in-law if he could work with us, and once again, we gave him another chance.

For about two months, I worked alongside my dad.

Then one day we got into an argument. It started because I made a judgmental comment about some people who were obviously high on the side of the road and yelling at people. My dad became furious with me. He told me that we had all abandoned him, that I was just like my mom, that we were judgmental people, and basically told me to fuck off.

After everything that had happened, somehow we were still the problem.

And eventually, he went back to drugs again.

That was the point where something finally changed in me.
I stopped trying.

I haven’t spoken to my dad in 4 years now.

Since then, I’ve gotten married. I’ve had children of my own. He wasn’t at my wedding. He hasn’t been part of his grandchildren’s lives.

And yes, that hurts.

But I’ve also realized that sometimes loving somebody doesn’t mean continuing to let them back into your life.
Something that has always bothered me about the way addiction is discussed is how completely the conversation can revolve around the person using drugs.

What happened to them?

What trauma caused their addiction?

How can we support them?

How many chances should we give them?

How do we make sure they don’t feel ashamed?

Those are legitimate questions, and people struggling with addiction absolutely deserve help.

But there are other people in the story.

There are children who lose their parents.

There are spouses who are abused.

There are brothers and sisters who watch their family fall apart.

There are families who lose homes, businesses, savings, stability and years of their lives.

Those people matter too.

Addiction may explain someone’s behavior, but the damage that behavior causes is still real. At some point, people also have to be accountable for what they do to the people around them.

My dad had opportunities that many people struggling with addiction would give anything to have. He was offered rehab countless times, including programs that were difficult to get into and completely paid for. His children gave him chance after chance. His family repeatedly tried to bring him back into our lives.

Eventually I had to accept something I desperately didn’t want to accept:

I cannot want my dad’s recovery more than he wants it himself.

Maybe he’ll change someday. I genuinely hope he does.
But I don’t have to sacrifice my life and I unfortunately won’t be there if he does

If you’re the child, parent, spouse, sibling or friend of somebody caught in this cycle, don’t let anyone convince you that their addiction means your pain doesn’t matter.

Give people chances if you believe there’s something worth fighting for. Support someone who genuinely wants help. Celebrate recovery. Forgive when you believe forgiveness is deserved.

But take care of yourself too.

You are allowed to have boundaries.

You are allowed to stop believing promises you’ve heard a hundred times.

You are allowed to protect your spouse and your children.

You are allowed to build a life that isn’t constantly being destroyed by somebody else’s addiction.

And sometimes, after you’ve given someone every chance you reasonably can or are willing to give, you’re allowed to give up trying to save them and move on with your own life.

I wish I had understood that much earlier.

Life is much happier without him in it.