When I tell people that a drug addiction nearly killed my dad, I know what most of them are thinking. Heroin. Crack. Maybe meth or ket. Those substances that steal your soul and slowly wreak havoc on your body. They’re imagining Trainspotting; too-skinny frames and protruding hip bones, the physical effects of addiction that are impossible to miss. But that isn’t how it played out in my family. I was 13 years old when my parents’ marriage fell apart, disintegrating suddenly and seemingly without warning over a few grey November weeks. When I tell people that my mum, my brother and I had no idea my dad was addicted to drugs until after he left us, I can see the bewilderment in their eyes. How could you not have noticed? I ask myself the same question all the time. My dad’s drug addiction didn’t ravage his body. Instead, it built it. As a 17st 7lb powerlifter, he looked to my childhood eyes like something of an adonis. Friends fancied him. Boys in my class coveted …