On Sunday, Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead. With a needle in his arm and bags of what is currently thought to be heroine. On the radio this morning Ken Stott, said that he was convinced it was death by misadventure, “he adored his wife”.

This post isn’t really about Philip Seymour Hoffman and his struggle with addiction, it’s about what I feel about growing up with someone that couldn’t control an addiction.

Addicts have to decide everyday whether they need to get high or drunk more than they want other things. Drugs or living. Getting high or being with their family.

I don’t say that lightly and I don’t say it with blame. The heartbreaking tragedy of addiction is that it really is that simple and that complicated. Ultimately, addicts wrestle with addiction alone, if the wishes of others had the power to change the compulsion, it would be easier for them to stay clean but the decision about whether to resist or give in belongs only with the addict. I’ve been on the sidelines and what you can do is limited.

I’ve written about my Dad before (here and here) and he’d have met the AA definition of an alcoholic, whether he was or not is still open for debate. What I do I know is that my Dad loved me but I grew up in the sure certainty that he loved his next pint more.

A wise friend of mine, talks about the stories we learn about ourselves and how they shape us and what we do next. The story that I learnt growing up with a father like mine, was that I was worthless.

As an adult, I know that my father’s behaviour wasn’t my fault. It doesn’t change the feeling, I had that if I had been a better daughter, he wouldn’t have behaved like that. My father drunk and smoked his way to an early grave, if he cared how his behaviour hurt his family, I didn’t know it. The hard truth is that he didn’t love me or us or anyone enough to stop.

That feeling of worthlessness runs through my life. It kept me in damaging relationships, it made and sometimes still does make me needy. Everyday, there’s a voice in the back of my head that tells me I’m not good enough, clever enough, pretty enough, committed enough. It makes me scared to try because I’ll only fail. Nowadays, I manage to keep that voice to a dull roar, I tell myself different stories.

Sometimes I want to fill the huge hole that feeling creates in me with something, anything that will make me feel better. I’ve learnt not to drink when I feel like that.

I don’t know if addiction is a disease, I do know that it runs in families.

So this morning, upon hearing how much a man loved his wife, the story I heard, was that love wasn’t enough to prevent the tragic death of a talented man. I wish he could have found a different story.