Labeled.

College was something I never saw myself completing. From a young age, I lacked confidence in my academic abilities. I don’t know why. I was intimidated by it all. How does this tie into my brothers and addiction, you ask? Hang on, I promise there is a point to this.

College was HARD. When I look back, I don’t know how I survived… I was twenty-three, living at home (still… why??), working fulltime and enrolled part-time— it sucked. I scraped by in High School, not putting forth the effort I should have. But college was different— I cared. For once, I wanted to accomplish something without quitting. I wanted to create a solid foundation for myself… I wanted to run as fast as I could away from my current situation.

For two and a half years I pushed myself in ways I never knew possible and yet I still felt defeated. It was time to turn in our applications for the UIndy Nursing Program and I knew I didn’t stand a chance. My grades were hardly meeting the requirements and I had to retake a couple of courses just to meet their guidelines. “I will never get out.” This thought circled above my head as if defining me and my future. 

My life was consumed by addiction in a whole new way this time. You see, the entire two years I spent preparing for the biggest decision of my life was penetrated by a new downward spiral from Michael. Don’t get me wrong, abusing any substance of any form is life altering… but this time was different. It was the first time we were introduced to Heroin. There is something about this specific drug that screams, “The End.”

We were introduced to the darkest form of fear, if that’s even a thing? It no longer became a question of “If he dies” but “When he dies.” What should be thoughtless acts of everyday living became fearful anticipation. Every time the phone rang, our bodies stiffened. As soon as you realized you were in the clear, you could feel yourself start to breathe again (to this very day, if my parents call me during the day, my heart stops). You never knew what was lurking around the corner, who would be there or how hard the next fall will be.

I met with my nursing advisor the morning before applying to the program of my dreams. I almost cancelled my appointment— I was embarrassed of my grades and honestly thought I’d be wasting her time as well. But there I sat in her tiny office, stomach churning and hands gripping my folder. I wish I knew what she was thinking… or even what she saw. I don’t think I looked up at her once. “Do you have a plan B?” I lost it. I mean I lost it all and left it on her floor. Four years of fear and heartache turned into tears. I don’t know why I shared my situation… It just came out.

Oh, sweet Rita. She was so compassionate and listened, really listened to me. I knew she felt sympathy but I couldn’t help but to see doubt in her eyes. Did she believe me? Or did she believe this would hold me back, as well? Silence filled her office when I was finished and I’m not sure if I left her speechless or if she was giving me time to pull it together. Her advice? Write a letter “explaining my situation” to the nursing board…. I wanted to end my college career right then and there. Addiction, yet again, gripped my life with all its power. “I have to explain myself to a body of people who don’t know me or my family.”

But isn’t that what addiction does? We only see things at surface level. If one were to only look my grades, repeated classes and GPA they would think I was an incompetent student and rip my application to shreds. I would. When you see an addict, what do you see at surface level? You see a record, a junkie and destruction. But what is underneath? A soul with a story. If you pull back the layers of choices, you begin to see the why.

I’m not sure who read my letter, but whoever it was saw me- they saw my why. They looked past the curse that held me so tightly. I will forever be grateful for the one who said YES because walking across that stage with a diploma in my hand was something only 18 year-old Brittany could dream of.

God love Rita. She met me on the other side of the stage that day. I thanked her for everything, for guiding me through the toughest two years of my life. “I didn’t think you’d make it...”

Those words still sting a bit today. She didn’t think I’d make it. Any confidence I had gained was quickly smothered by the ever-defining word ADDICTION. She too, saw my situation as I did… as most people did. This moment was huge for me— it changed me. It not only enabled how I viewed my brothers (they were baggage to me), but myself as well. Any insecurities I had about my capabilities was confirmed in that moment. For a long time, I set my bar low, as if I didn’t deserve something great… or because I couldn’t achieve greatness. I welcomed addiction to the driver seat. I didn’t just lose control— I gave up control.

There I stood on the sidelines watching one big dumpster fire yelling orders at the players. I demanded change and nothing was changing. I was pissed. I was labeled. The sad part? I labeled myself. Do I think some have a difficult time understanding addiction and the toll it takes on an entire family? Yes. But I also believe most of the time when we feel judged or labeled, it’s because we’ve created it. We put ourselves in a glass bubble, so to speak, and allow words or looks to shatter our barrier. I didn’t realize that, then… I was paralyzed.

Consumed.

 There it sat, tucked behind the rest of his show boxes. It didn’t stand out unless you were snooping— an orange Nike shoe box strategically placed out of sight, screaming to be opened. With hands on either side, I pulled it out for further investing. Slowly, I pulled the lid back and there it was. I immediately slammed the box shut and placed it back to where it would appear untouched (somehow Michael always knew when we were snooping).

“What did you find?” Christian asked as he came running around the corner. “Nothing. Don’t go in there, I mean it.” I was always curious enough to snoop and share what I found with him but this time was different. What did I just find? To this day, I am not exactly sure what it was, but I know it wasn’t meant to be found. Who is this person I call my brother? I felt disappointed. I felt scared. And I felt ashamed that the stranger I once felt proud to call my brother was actually a “druggie.” That’s how I looked at him from that moment on. It made me feel less guilty about not pursuing a relationship with him. I judged him, and I judged him hard. I never went to my parents. Maybe I should have? Maybe it would’ve changed the course of his future? I used to think that but through the years that changed.

This was the first of many encounters like that. The arguments between him and my mom became more intense. And the time he spent away became longer. It remained this way until he moved out the summer he graduated. “Michael” was just a name that I occasionally heard from time to time— related by blood but strangers by nature…. This was normal to me. And I intended on keeping it that way.

“Your brother is coming to live with us.” I was nineteen years old and lived with my mom, Christian, Amy and Faith. It was a tiny three-bedroom home so I shacked up with my little sisters. I didn’t understand the severity of Michael’s problem at the time… Honestly, I don’t think any of us did. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the next month. I was so humiliated (not because I was 19 and living at home still, ha!) because my twenty-three-year-old “druggie” brother is now living with us. Family life was tough for me to grasp. It felt messy in every sense and now I have an addict brother who I am forced to live with. Another thing for me to explain.

I honestly don’t know how that month ended. We’ve lived through so many of these moments as a family, they all start to blend together. I believe this was our first time putting him in rehab. You know that feeling you get when you anticipate giving a speech? And then the feeling when you’re done? That’s the best way I can describe my emotions through this experience. The days leading up were hard— fear that he would change his mind settled in the pit of my stomach. 

Rehab resembled a jail cell. It absolutely broke my heart. As angry as I was at my brother, the thought of leaving him in a place like this wrecked me. But there was hope that filled my soul that day. The man standing before me was sober. For the first time in my teenage life, I saw my brother. He had color in his face, his eyes saddened but alive and you could see the thoughts running through his head. When we pulled out of the parking lot, I felt physical pain leave my body (my speech was over). I had this idea that rehab cured the addict— that the person we would see in thirty days would be the person we got for the rest of our lives.

The first relapse taught me many things, but the most significant was hatred. I hated our situation, I hated everyone who was enabling it, and I hated my brother. How dare he use again? Why would anyone feel sorry for him? He made a SOBER decision to use again… AGAIN! If you asked me (eh, I told you regardless of being asked) he was selfish. He was slowly killing himself and taking everyone down with him. “When will this stop?” My prayers were mostly questions, anymore. I could not understand why this life was chosen for me and my family. I compared myself to my peers. Their journeys seemed “normal.” Or at least less dramatic. I started to look at my circumstances as “dirty”. Its so hard to admit that now, but I did. I believed I would always be viewed as “that girl” from “that family”.

Addiction became our household name. If you weren’t talking about it, you were listening to it. And if you weren’t listening to it, you were thinking about it. Heaven forbid you ran into someone you knew, because they were sure to ask about it. And if they didn’t? It remained the white elephant in the room. Isn’t it funny how everyone has an opinion (hi, guilty!) on how to handle another’s situation? Ugh, the number of times I heard, “You need to do this...” “You guys shouldn’t have done that...” “Tell your parents to...” “He needs this...” The list is endless. And 90% of the advice was given out of genuine love and concern. The other 10%? Pure judgement. You could place me in the 10% group.

We were equally controlled by what he put in his body. No matter the role you played— whether the significant other, parent or sibling— you were powerless. “Why do you keep running after him?” I don’t know how many times I’d asked this question. To me, it was obvious my brother had zero desire to stay “clean.” He was CHOOSING this lifestyle. So why were people exhausting their efforts to help? This fueled my hatred to a new level. I lost my parents during this time. When I looked at them, I saw bodies with empty souls. I imagine witnessing your child put his life on the line daily would take a tole after a while. My heart broke for them, yet I blamed them at the same time. Not because my brothers struggled with addiction, but because they continuously chased them. In my narrowed opinion, I thought that helping them in any way was enabling. If you asked me, my brothers needed to be cut off completely and forced to their “rock bottom.” What I know now? It is 100% in an addict’s hands. I’ve seen both extremes— someone given every resource available to become and stay sober and someone who has had everything taken away. The outcome? The one who completed rehab overdosed and passed within a week of leaving. The one who has nothing? He’s now living on the streets…. 

“As long as he runs, I will follow. He’s my son and he’s lost right now.” This was my mom’s favorite thing to say to me. Ever hear the story of the prodigal son in the Bible? She referenced that a lot… a lot, a lot. Every time she mentioned it, it was gasoline to my never- ending fire. I despised that analogy with my entire being. I was feeling my anger towards God growing daily, so hearing any reference from the Bible literally made my skin crawl (I had no idea how angry I really was, geez).

I convinced myself that I gave Michael a fair chance... I can call bullshit on that now. I desired to open my heart to him, I really did. But I was too consumed by my own emotions, I couldn’t see past the word “addiction.” And I couldn’t push past my judgement. My understanding of this illness was yes, your body is chemically dependent to a substance, but once you become sober, you are CHOOSING to be an addict if you relapse. So far from the truth. I genuinely struggled to feel sympathy towards his brokenness. When he was the topic of conversation my anger consumed my hardened heart… but when I saw him, it broke. I was reminded that he was, in fact, a real person and not just a subject. It was in those moments I wanted to believe in something, anything. I wanted to believe in his promises. I wanted to believe our lives could change. But with every high came an even lower low… I became cynical. I stopped having faith and looked for my brother to fail. Sober for a few days? Oh, don’t get your hopes up, he WILL use again. Seems a little “chatty?” He MUST be high. Everything my poor brother said or did, I came at him (and everyone else) with criticism. I sought out failure in everything. And this very thinking bled into how I lived my life— I expected everything to fail around me. Including myself.

                                                                    Family

I remember the first time I felt insecure. OK, that’s a lie. I’m certain I felt this countless times before this day, but there was something about this specific situation that set the stage for how I viewed my family for a long time.

It was your typical day in preschool. We sat around our colorful table— covered in crayons and construction paper. Kids were experimenting with glue sticks and cotton balls while our teacher was doing her best to keep our attention on the project at hand (I have so much respect for teachers). I was starting feel anxious because I couldn’t hear what Mrs. B wanted from us. I have been a rule follower my entire life and when someone of authority is barking out orders, you better believe I am all ears. So, you can only imagine how fast my little 4-year-old heart was beating when Josh, the boy next to me, was overtalking Mrs. B’s instructions. Our theme of the day was “Family” and we were to draw our best version of what our family looked like. “I only want you to draw your parents and siblings.” Josh was still tipping in his chair and clanking his pencil on the table, but I was certain I heard Mrs. B correctly. “Parents and siblings, got it”.

There I sat, yellow crayon in hand, putting my vision on paper. One by one, I drew each person who meant the world to me— Dad, Mom, Bridgette, Paula, Dale, Steve, Crecia, Larra, Josh, Brandon, Michael, Me and Christian. If you haven’t caught on yet, my family is HUGE! I am one of thirteen children- mind blown huh? I’m lucky number nine. When my parents met, my father had eight children from a couple previous marriages. My mom had one, then together, they had me, Christian, Amy, and then Faith. At the time, though, Christian was the youngest. 

I held up my paper towards the ceiling to admire my work of art. Everyone was lined up in order by age and stood about a quarter inch shorter than the next. I don’t know how long I sat there critiquing my masterpiece, must have been a while because Mrs. B kept calling for me to join our reading circle.

The next morning, I skipped to my seat with so much excitement. I couldn’t wait to get my paper back. I had big plans for it— it was going up on my fridge (such big dreams, ha!). I don’t know how many times Mrs. B passed me by. Why was I even surprised? With the last name Young, I knew I’d be last. “Brittany”— eek! There it was just as I described it to my parents the night before— my entire family, one standing next to the other, shoulders touching (because, hello, there were 13 people total and there isn’t enough space to draw when your crayons are as fat as your fingers). “Check-minus?” Are you kidding me? Gosh darn it, Josh. I knew you were too loud. I couldn’t hear Mrs. B and now I have a check-minus. “I need to explain myself. I need a second chance,” I thought. Tears filled my eyes as I threw my arm in the air.

As the teacher approached my desk, every emotion I felt that morning came spewing out as a blubbering mess. Through the tears and hyperventilating, I pled my case. Mrs. B was so kind and understanding as she rubbed my back until my breathing returned back to normal. “I only wanted you to draw your parents and siblings.” The look on her face when I explained my family dynamic is a face my 4-year old self will never forget.

It was then, in that moment, that I understood what “not normal” looked and felt like. I was embarrassed. Quick side note, something I want to make very clear here— I LOVE my family and each sibling with my entire being. I feel incredibly blessed to be one of now, thirteen kids. But a four-year-old’s mentality is much different. Standing out is not cool. Being different is not accepted and for an already timid little girl, this crushed me.

I don’t know if Mrs. B’s eyes could open any wider until I informed her of ALL my father’s previous marriages. It reminded me of that toy, you know, the rubber one when you squeeze it, the eyes pop out? Who knew a preschooler could bring the tea (insert wink face)? It must have made for a good story because by the time I finished, both assistants were sitting alongside ol’ Mrs. B.

Many years later, when asked how many siblings I had, I blurted out a rehearsed response, “I’m one of thirteen. But my dad was married before and my mom had one from a previous marriage as well. Together, I am their first, but I stand as number nine.” It always got awkward after that… maybe because you could tell it was practiced? Or maybe it wasn’t weird at all and it was just me reliving that moment at ABC Daycare? Who knows? Either way, I knew my family dynamic wasn’t “standard” or “traditional” which labeled me as “different”. I was judged— my family was judged. And knowing this played into my insecurities a little more than the typical growing pains a young girl experiences. 

My parents were married for 18 years and divorced when I was a Junior in High School. Most kids would find this to be a discouraging time, however this really was for the best. Don’t get me wrong, my heart broke the day my house did, but I had a level of understanding that our stability as a family needed two homes…if that makes sense? I love my parents with my whole heart but they functioned better without the other. Their divorce on the other hand, broke my brothers. Michael never had a solid relationship with his biological father. I will not speak anymore on that— I do not know the circumstances behind why. However, I will say it wasn't from a lack of effort. His father, stepmother and sisters love him deeply. Michael always pulled away. The reality was my father was in his life since he was 3 years old. He viewed my dad as his own, so this struck him a bit differently. Christian’s poor little heart shattered— it changed him. I think his view on trust changed after that. My sisters were very young at the time— Amy was seven and Faith was months old. I grew very protective over them, helping my mom as much as I could while she led us in our new way of life. 

Michael, at the time, was living with his longtime girlfriend (later wife) leaving me the oldest child to live at home. I never saw him much… Even when he lived at home, he stayed locked in his room, away from the normal everyday chaos. So not talking to him seemed more natural than actually talking to him. When we did interact, it was usually forced and equally as uncomfortable. We didn’t share the same friend circle, per se, however my friends were the siblings of his friends. Oddly enough there were times I felt jealous towards them. His friends got to know him— really see him for who he was. I had the privilege of calling him my brother, yet he was a stranger living under the same roof. How did this happen? As an adult and now a parent myself, I see how not normal his behavior really was. Isolating himself from family should have been a huge red flag for us. But he was good at downplaying and manipulating situations. If he wasn’t charming my mom, he was working his teachers. For a kid who barely made it to class on time or participated, he made decent grades— better than me! I can’t tell you how many times I found him roaming the hallways in high school. “Dude, what are you doing?” I’d ask. Immediately he’d get this sly grin and shrug his shoulders. I knew what he was doing. He was waiting for the perfect time to flee. For the life of me, I could never figure out where he'd go.

He was a Senior when I was a Freshman in High School. I remember feeling excited to be at the same school as him…maybe we could get to know each other better? I made sure to inform every teacher that Michael E. was my big brother. I don’t know why? Even though we had zero relationship, I was still a very proud little sister. From what I could see, people loved him. He was quiet but when around the right crowd his guard came down and the jokes came out.

I sat the other day reminiscing our childhood together. I tried to pinpoint when he started to become distant…I can’t. For as long as I can remember, Michael has always been withdrawn, a man of few words and secretive. I don’t know why. Was this just with us? Was he this way with his friends? Strangers? I can recall a time when Christian and I were playing Barbies (it was just the three of us for a long time. Thank God Christian didn’t mind being subjected to my doll obsession) and Michael kept peeking through the crack of my bedroom door. It was extremely distracting. One because I just added a new Skipper to my collection and I was trying to concentrate on how I wanted to cut her hair (sorry mom) and two, because he never wanted to play with me. “Do you want to play?” I asked. Slowly my door came open and a boy I barely knew but called my brother walked in. He brought in his GI Joe and quietly sat down next to Christian. I watched him from the corner of my eye for a while. I was curious about him. I was intrigued by his imagination. There he sat moving his action figure from hand to hand, not saying a word. His eyes gazed at his toy, never losing focus. I sat on edge waiting for something, anything to come from his mouth— nothing. This image would describe much of our relationship throughout our childhood to present time.

I’m not sure when I realized my brothers had a problem. Honestly, it feels as though this dark cloud has always hovered over us. Maybe high school? Michael stayed locked away in his room. I don’t know why, but his bedroom intrigued me. Like when your parents tell you NOT to touch something, you can’t help but want to! His bedroom was off limits at all times... except when no one was looking of course! His mysteriousness piqued my interest, “Who are you?”  Christian and I had a system when he was gone. One of us would stand guard while the other went exploring every nook and cranny. When someone was coming, the other would cough (clearly creativity doesn’t run in our family. Cough?) His room was spotless. Even his bedding was nicely tucked, not a wrinkle in place. Truck magazines stacked by month, coin jars organized by coin value, posters clung to his walls hiding the green paint that once was and the smell of incense lingered through the air. It seemed like a normal place of refuge, it appeared “normal” until you looked in his closet.  

One summer night my parents left me in charge of Christian and Amy. Michael was gone per usual so this left us full range to explore every corner of his chamber. Little did I know that what we would find would alter how I viewed my brother for most of my life.

 

How Did I Get Here? Addiction has dominated and transformed my life from the inside out. It does not discriminate or show remorse. And when it shows up unannounced, it spews into every crevice of your life. It’s much like someone you love being diagnosed with an incurable illness. The entire family’s world changes. I will even go one further and say, you’re diagnosed with them. Oh no, this isn’t a battle that one watches from the sidelines. This is a death wish that nominates everyone in reach to participate in.  Why me? I’ve spent most of the last decade asking God this. Why do I have to suffer along with my brothers? Why have You allowed them to steal my life as well? Is it not enough that they’ve destroyed their own? Why have You allowed my family to burden this pain? I was tired of explaining my circumstances to friends, to my employers, to my professors… to everyone, really. I was thrown into a war I never signed up for and little by little my world became dark and lonely, my vision narrowed and my heart grew cold. I dreaded the question, “How are you? How’s your family?”. It’s always asked with pure intentions and I know if the person could see my heart, they wouldn’t inquire. How do you muster up a response? Am I saying too much? Am I saying too little? Do they even know? “Same story, different day,” is how I eventually answered.  Robbed— Addiction has robbed me of so many precious moments and thoughts. It prevented me from developing a relationship with my older brother. It destroyed the possibility of having a future with my younger brother. The moments one yearns for their parents’ attention most was taken from me— engagement, college graduation, bridal/baby showers, wedding, holidays, etc. With each let down, I felt myself hate a little more. I hated my brothers. I hated who they were and I hated that they were a part of me. I eventually became numb to their emotions. Every sober streak was followed by a gut-wrenching crash— money stolen, prescriptions confiscated, lies on top of lies, enabling, relationships destroyed… It started and ended the same way every time— with a broken promise— “I promise I won’t,” followed by, “I promise never again.” I wish I could say my heart changed after the first overdose, but it didn’t— It grew colder. I can’t even remember who overdosed first? Maybe Christian? It was a crisp Sunday morning and I had a missed call from my mom. This is not atypical; we talk a lot! I called her back on my lunch break later that day and immediately I knew something was wrong. “Listen, Christian is in the hospital. He’s going to be ok; he says he just drank too much.” Or it could’ve been Michael? Again, a missed call from my mom. And wouldn’t you know it? Same conversation. One would think hearing that you almost lost a brother would shake you up a bit— give you that, “Ah ha!” moment. I’ve only admitted this to one other person (my now husband) before. There was a time when I thought their death would make things better. I wish I could insert the monkey hiding his face emoji right now. Just know as I am typing this, I’m doing just that: hiding my face. I am ASHAMED that I ever thought death would be an easy out. I am ASHAMED that I spent years and years hating. And I am ASHAMED that it took a fifth overdose for my, “Ah ha” moment to show up. I never want to portray an image that I’ve got it figured out- far from it actually. But I have found hope and have learned to love harder along the way. I don’t believe in living among the “what if’s” or “should haves.” It’s a great place to go and learn, but not to stay and dwell. I visit there often. There are things I regret saying, things I regret doing, but most of all, there are things I regret NOT saying or NOT doing… I spent a lot of time hating my brothers…being angry with my parents…and allowing my circumstances to define me. As I sit here, I’m still trying to figure out how the heck I got to this point? Not too long ago I cringed at this topic and hid behind my judgement-filled thoughts and emotions. Now, here I am sharing personal details of my life that has held my family captive for many, many years. Thank you for your support and patience as I navigate uncharted waters. I want to make my intentions known, as well. I’m an imperfect human. I do not hold some secret “key” to unlock the door to happiness or addiction. I’m simply a 34-year-old sister, daughter, mother, wife and friend who has walked a very dark road for some time. My hope is to create a platform where I can share in my struggles as the sister of an addict. My prayer is to honor my brothers the way they deserve— to share their story in hopes to alter the stigma of addiction and how we as a society view addicts.  ReplyForward