My Dad Overdosed and For Years I Was Too Embarrassed To Talk About It.

Trigger warning: This post contains discussion of drug abuse, overdose, and death.

Every year there are two days that I dread — April 22nd, my dad's date of birth and January 22nd, his date of death.

This past April would have been my dad's 73rd birthday, and although he passed 6 years ago, in many ways, it still feels fresh.

I remember January 22, 2019 vividly. It started out just like any other normal day, but by 6pm that evening, everything was different. I remember the call from my sister telling me they had found my dad unresponsive. I remember making my way to their shared duplex. It was snowing. Terribly. The roads slick and icy. Of all the days I needed to be somewhere fast, it just had to be snowing. The trek seemed like it took an eternity, and yet, the whole time, I already knew in my heart my dad was gone. I arrived just in time to see the paramedics taking his body out on a stretcher. My intuition hadn’t failed me; my dad was dead.

The next weeks and months that followed were a haze. I was less present on social media, and while I did eventually share my loss with the world, I never shared his cause of death. And granted, it wasn't anyone's business. I'm not one of those people who think we have to share every aspect of our lives publicly. We don’t owe anyone that. In fact, I think we should all feel less privy to the interworking of people's lives.

The rise of social media has cultivated an unhealthy sense of entitlement within people. This idea that as consumers of content we “have a right to know”. Earlier this month, a TikToker with over 3 million followers lost her son, and fans revealed the details of his passing before she even spoke about it. They went through public records to confirm his death and shared this information with the internet. What a disgusting and horrific thing to do. And yet, people defended their actions under the guise of concern for the family. While I have nowhere near 3 million followers and few people concerned about the details of my private life, I am still deeply concerned with how we are moving as a society.

However, the reason I didn't share had less to do with privacy and more to do with a slew of complex emotions surrounding his cause of death.

So here I am today, at the very end of mental health month, writing about this publicly for the first time ever.

My dad died from a drug overdose.

The slew of complicated emotions I experienced were shame that was too overwhelming, guilt that was too unrelenting, and anger that was too daunting.

Shame because of the stigma surrounding substance abuse and overdose.

What does it say about my family if my dad overdosed? What would people think?

Guilt because I knew my dad was struggling with addiction. I had talked to him about it before. It was one of the hardest conversations of my life. There’s so many books on how to be a parent. Where are the books for adult children trying to manage their parents’ addictions? I really could have used it. Our conversation, however, did prompt him to enter a drug rehab program, but he didn’t stay.

Maybe I should have pressed harder? Maybe I should have paid more attention? Maybe I should have checked on him more frequently? Maybe I should have been a better daughter? Maybe I could have saved him?

Anger because I blamed my dad for leaving us too soon.

Why couldn’t he just kick his addiction? Didn’t he care about me...about us? About my 12 year nephew that adored him and spent almost every day with him? About his unborn grandchild that would be born just three months after he passed?

As I've grown older, went to therapy, and sat with my feelings of shame about sharing my experience with the grief of losing a family member to drug addiction, I've realized just how much white supremacy and racism are coupled with the stigma of drug abuse.

The intersection of substance abuse and anti-Blackness is evident in the way drug abuse is portrayed in media, both the news and movies, and it was absolutely impacting how I felt about my dad’s passing.

Below is an excerpt from a 2024 study conducted by The International Journal of Drug Policy, entitled The intersection of substance use stigma and anti-Black racial stigma: A scoping review, discussing this very topic.

The racialized campaign of the War on Drugs is supported by popular media narratives that differentially portray Black and White people who use drugs. Hegemonic stereotypes and portrayals of Black people as criminals and “hoodlums” coupled with the criminalization of substance use, influenced the public opinion of the stereotypical person who uses drugs and drug dealers as Black. These biased stereotypes are further reinforced by narratives that conversely depict White people who use drugs as sympathetic individuals in need of treatment and support. For example, although racialized media narratives were prominent after the inception of crack cocaine “epidemic” in the 1980s-1990s (e.g., sensationalized accounts of Black, urban “crackheads” and disabled “crack babies”), a contemporary study found that press articles from 2001 to 2011 similarly portrayed Black and Latinx people who use opioids as criminals whereas White people who use opioids were humanized and portrayed sympathetically or blamelessly (e.g., as people with health problems who need treatment; as victims of “dirty doctors” and Black and Latinx drug dealers).

Black drug abuse is often portrayed sensationally, with a hyper focus on crime, violence, poverty, moral decay, personal failings, and “crackheads” — think The Wire, a popular HBO show that aired during the early 2000s. While white drug abuse is portrayed as tragic and disease oriented, with a need for compassion and rehabilitation — think Beautiful Boy, a 2018 film, featuring Steve Carell and Timothée Chalamet, showcasing the effects of addiction on a young white male and his family.

Rarely are Black or Latinx people met with empathy or compassion as it pertains to drug addiction. It’s seen as a moral failing associated with race.

I, like most everyone else, had grown up internalizing this portrayal of Black people and drug abuse. The programming had seeped in through the pores of my skin and resided deep in the marrow of my bones.

My hesitancy to share my dad’s battle with addiction was because I didn’t want people to think I was one of those Black people. The ‘bad’ Blacks. I wanted to be viewed as an exceptional Black from an exceptional family.

When I was in 5th grade, I was having a sleepover at a friend’s house. For the sake of this story, we'll call her Kate. I’m chilling at Kate’s house, having dinner with her family. Everything is fine, just casual dinner conversation, and then seemingly out of nowhere, Kate proclaims, “my dad doesn’t like Black people, but he says you’re okay.”

This is the first time I remember adopting respectability politics — a set of beliefs holding that confirming to prescribed mainstream standards of behavior and appearance will protect a person who is part of a marginalized group, especially a Black person from prejudices and systemic injustices — even though I didn't have the language for it.

From that moment on, I decided I needed to be a model Black person. Exceptional in every way possible. This mentality followed me well into my adult years until I started doing the work to decouple myself from white supremacy culture.

However, despite all the work I’ve done unlearning white supremacy, racism, and anti-Blackness, the remnants remain. And that’s simply because white supremacy is the air we breathe, uncoupling ourselves from its harmful lies and narratives is work that is neverending, even for myself, a Black woman.

My dad’s addiction revealed a part of me that still needed healing. My identity was still deeply rooted in perfectionism. And his cause of death didn’t quite fit into that.

But here’s the thing I have to keep reminding myself — perfectionism and the desire to appear perfect – always has and always will be a tool of white supremacy. Caroline J. Sumlin, author of We’ll All Be Free, writes eloquently about the intersection of white supremacy and perfectionism.

Our addiction to and battle with perfectionism as a society is not a coincidence. This culture has built up over time from the systems of oppression our society was built on. Our modern world was built on an oppressive human hierarchy and relies on maintaining that hierarchy to function. This hierarchy was founded on the idea that Blackness is the lowest tier of humanity and whiteness is the top tier. To ensure the supremacy of whiteness, characteristics such as perfection have been attached to it and then sold as a morally superior way to be human. As a result, we all exhaust ourselves believing that perfection is the way to prove our moral superiority and our worth, not realizing that perfection is not only impossible, but the antithesis to humanity. Humans are not meant to operate as robots. Humans were not created to feel shame for the very human traits that make us the complex, beautiful beings that we are.

My dad was a beautiful, complex being having a very human experience. He was a Vietnam veteran and a Black man living in America. Neither of those are without their challenges, and my dad wasn’t immune. I understand now that he simply didn't know how to deal with his own pain and trauma.

Time has allowed me to uncover a deep level of empathy for everyone involved. It allowed me to forgive him as well as myself. Neither of us are to blame for his passing. I once heard the quote, “a wound heals when it hits the air.” I have no idea if scientifically that is true or not, but I do know that sharing the truth about my dad’s cause of death does feel healing for me.

They say that time heals all wounds, but I disagree. My heart still feels wounded, but it’s slightly less painful each day. Although my dad is no longer here in the physical sense, his spirit remains with me. I sense him everywhere—in my dreams, in my thoughts, in the blood coursing through my veins—subtle reminders that he’s always with me. His unexpected passing is a constant reminder to me that our human existence is fleeting. His death gave me the courage to live my life more honestly. The fragility of life inspires me to live life larger—to take the adventures, live more authentically, take more risks.

In the end, I know that our love is eternal, to infinity and beyond. Our bond is different but not broken.

I initially felt that discussing my dad’s drug overdose would tarnish his legacy, but I understand now, more than ever, that discussing the events surrounding his death is helping me reclaim my power.

There is no shame in losing a loved one to drug overdose. I will not allow white supremacy and racism to consume me with shame about my dad’s humanity.

If you're reading this, there's a good chance that perhaps you aren't facing the shame of overdose. But there's an equally good chance, you're experiencing shame or discomfort in another area of your life.

Your body. Your sexuality. Your past decisions. Your upbringing. Your perceived failures. Your identity. Your mental health.

All the places white supremacy and the patriarchy try to keep us small.

As we close out May, mental health month, I’m sharing my truth with the hope that it also frees someone from their shame.

If you or someone you love is struggling with mental health or substance abuse, you can get help. Call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration at (800) 662-4357 or text 988.

Thank you so much for reading The Liberation Collective. I’m eternally grateful to have you here. You can also follow along on Instagram and TikTok. And if you want to partner with me, you can email me at info@chrissyking.com

---

Support Black Women Writers.

Your support as a paid subscriber on my Substack is essential to sustaining the work I do. I’m committed to keeping my writing accessible to everyone, but to maintain this structure, I need your help. By subscribing, you’re not just supporting me, a Black woman writer, you’re investing in a platform that’s committed to sharing meaningful and thoughtful content.

Please consider joining as a paid subscriber today to support my work.

---