The end of a Monster
The truth of my father and the complication of his death
Today, 5/14/2026, my dad died from cancer caused by consistent drinking and smoking for decades. I thought I would be sad like my brother or my mother, but I wasn’t. I was simply indifferent. In fact, I found myself almost enjoying his suffering. I felt like a monster for admitting that. I suppose I am a bad person for feeling this way, and I accept that, but there are reasons.
My dad was an alcoholic, and he began that journey in the Army. He joined when he was 17, and by the time he turned 21, my mother was 15 years old and had my brother Tony. From her perspective, she felt like her life was taken from her by someone who promised her the world. My uncle, Larry Trujillo, was working as a state senator in Colorado at the time and basically forced the marriage between my dad and mom. My father took her to Europe, where he was stationed for a while, until he was assigned to El Paso, Texas, where I was born in 1991.
Shortly after I was born, they divorced my mom citing abuse due to alcohol. We were split up, with Tony mostly living with my dad and me mostly with my mom.
I personally remember, when I was around 5 to 9 years old, my dad was watching pornography openly in the living room of the trailer home. He expressed extreme racist views about Black Americans, saying things like “the cockroaches come out at night,” referring to people hanging out in the neighborhood. He also hated Mexicans. I felt horrible because he always introduced me jokingly to his brothers and friends as his “n‑word kids.”
Debbie, my stepmother at the time, reinforced this environment. She favored Tony because she was autistic and Tony was developmentally disabled. Unfortunately, because of the environment in that house and my dad’s behavior, Tony developed harmful behavior toward me. I don’t know how many times it happened. I just remember the pain. Tony luckily does not remember any of this today due to his disability and very short memory, but there are news articles about him in Pueblo involving sexual assault against other kids. Look up “Anthony Friend Pueblo Colorado.”
My dad also used to get drunk and slam my head against the wall, calling me “loose nails” as a joke. He thought I was too feminine and needed to “man up.”
When I was around 10 to 14, I got stronger. I was able to push Tony away, and one day I hurt him badly out of pain and rage. I felt terrible afterward because he didn’t understand what he had done.
My dad’s drinking got worse. My stepmother eventually died due to neglect he was always at the bait shop drinking and working, even though Debbie needed monitoring because of known blood clots and heart issues. Later, I developed behavior issues in school that I believe contributed to my BPD today.
He eventually lost the house and the bait shop because of his drinking and ended up in a studio apartment, wasting away. Then he met Mary, whom he verbally abused until the end. He died today because of the same drinking that shaped his entire life.
In my eyes, it feels like karma some kind of sick justice. I was told by my mom and many others to forgive him and accept him. I cannot. Not even on his deathbed.
