|
Cracked Surface
Uncovering a brother's drug addiction
By T.J. DeGroat
My brother is a 21-year-old white kid from a loving home in an affluent suburban community. And he is addicted to crack.
I found out a few weeks ago. My mother, looking sad and small, was sitting in the living room when I walked in. "You're right about Michael," she said. "He really does have issues. He's at [a Narcotics Anonymous] meeting right now."
That afternoon, I noticed he'd stayed home from work for the second day in a row. This unglamorous but consistent towing job had given him a sense of purpose and responsibility, something he seemed to crave, but on this day he was drowning again, falling back into old habits.
Looking for a pan in the kitchen pantry, my suspicious ears heard Michael open the upstairs bathroom door and turn on the water, letting it run for a solid minute. Knowing my wallet was in my bedroom, unguarded, I tip-toed up the stairs, willing the creaky wood to remain silent. I caught Michael hurriedly coming out of my bedroom, throwing out a lame excuse in an irritated tone when I questioned him.
Later, I heard glass crashing in the living room and grunts of frustration. It wasn't too shocking, but it was enough to send me out the front door, off on an impromptu trip to Manhattan. After a lifetime of coping with his moods, I knew when to check out.
On my way to the train station I called my mother's office, giving her a head's up. She confronted Michael that afternoon and the truth poured out.
* * *
Plagued by emotional and learning problems since childhood, Michael has always been a handful. I imagine he felt like an outsider at times, but my family did all it could to make sure he knew he was loved.
Love is something he's been chasing, especially from our elusive father. My dad's presence in our lives dramatically decreased after my parents divorced. We were just young children but the impact was substantial. At 14, after years of cancelled visits and myriad other disappointments, I made the conscious decision to cut him and the entire paternal side of my family out of my life. But my brother remained committed, desperately reaching out to his dad for acceptance.
Michael and I were following different paths in all aspects of our lives. Just a year and a half apart, we avoided the awkward experience of attending the same high school. My mother opted to enroll him in a vocational academy. He would not have been able to keep up with the academic demands of my high school. My mother also wanted to avoid comparisons.
Years before, when we were both students at the same elementary school in New York, he walked in my shadow. I was the straight-A student; he was the screw-up. The late '80s weren't as dark as the '50s, but the educational system still wasn't fully equipped to deal with emotionally challenged and learning-disabled children. In my teens I found out that during one of my mom's many trips to the principal's office, the normally reserved educator shouted at Michael, "Why can't you just be more like your brother?"
Always fighting for the attention of our single mom, I was privately pleased to hear things like that when I was young. But I've grown to appreciate the struggles my brother faced and the battles he'll fight for the rest of his life. I want to be his ally, but it's difficult to support someone who doesn't have a fundamental level of respect for himself or his loved ones.
How can I sympathize with a guy who's hooked on drugs, a guy who has been lying to and stealing from his family for years, a guy whose temper races from zero to 60 in mere seconds? We all have our vices, but what compels him to take risks that offer no potential rewards?
What hurts most about this situation is watching my mother struggle, searching for answers, figuring out how to support her baby boy, wondering whether to kick him out or lock him in.
Sitting on the cool leather couch, telling me about Michael's newly discovered addiction, her eyes reddened. She covered her face and cried. It tore me apart.
She doesn't have any answers, and neither do I. It's frustrating and it makes me want to give up, but I won't. Despite our differences, I'll be here, offering my support and hoping for the best. Because he's my brother.
T.J. DeGroat is a Hatch Magazine editor.
|
