My father’s addiction to cocaine has taken a long, dark path, starting in his youth.

It started with his mother, who used cocaine in her youth, and her friends.

It continued with her.

My father began using heroin in his teens.

It ended when he was arrested in 2003, at age 29, for possession of cocaine and heroin.

It was there, in his prison cell, that my father learned of the horrors of addiction.

As a teen, I witnessed him cut and spit out drugs on the floor of his cell and try to kill himself.

When he was 17, I was able to track down my father.

He was in his 60s.

He lived in the Bronx.

When I first met him, he looked like he’d never left his house.

He had a white beard and wore a tie that was the exact same one he wore at his mother’s house.

When we met, I told him I was a writer, but he didn’t take me seriously.

He wasn’t interested in a story about my father and drug abuse, and I told that story to him.

He said he’d love to talk about it.

After years of trying to get help for him, I finally gave in.

My dad’s addiction was a secret, and he didn