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.