That is how my evening began. One minute I was sitting on the edge of Poblacian Beach, minding my own business and enjoying my book, while waiting for dinner to arrive, and the next, I’m having an in-depth conversation about addiction with someone I’ve never met, and will likely never see again. I suppose that is the beauty of traveling — the people you meet and the stories you share.
For the next few hours that followed, we sipped coffee and talked about addiction and the way in which it has affected our lives. For me, it is a younger brother; for him, it is a father. While heroin and alcohol are two very different struggles, they present similar feelings to those on the outside, reaching in, trying to help.
My brother’s situation is a delicate one, and more often than not, I don’t share it with those around me — at least not the intricacies: the nitty-gritty details, the emotions, the anger, the heartache, the guilt. It’s not because I am embarrassed or ashamed; I am neither. I simply don’t know how. I can easily and openly talk about the basics with anyone who asks, but anything beyond the outline is typically curbed, even to those closest to me. But rarely, if ever, does anyone ask. This part of my life — this part of me — is shared more with strangers and acquaintances than my own friends and family. I guess I never realized that until now.
Addiction is tricky. It’s complicated and messy. It’s unforgiving and ugly. It never sleeps or gives you the chance to catch your breath. It is woven into the very fabric of your being, and no two people will ever share the same fight, because it’s so personal, and so deep rooted.
The love that I have for my younger brother is unlike any other. I can’t begin to explain it, articulate it, or even understand it. It just is. I imagine that it must parallel what a parent feels for their child. It’s unconditional. It occupies a part of me, and when he hurts, I hurt. We’re just intertwined.
He was a good kid. A smart kid, a funny kid, an athlete. And that kid still lives inside of him, although he is now a man. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of him — before the courtrooms, collect calls, needles, pipes, spoons — and I just want to rewind the hands of time. It didn’t have to be like this. Sometimes I have these dreams and I see him smiling. I get to watch him grow up, go off to college, settle down and start a family. But then I wake up. I wake up.
In the beginning, whenever anything would happen, I would get the call. In recent years, my parents and oldest brother have been very involved (thank you, Jesse… thank you). But, for a long time, I felt as though I carried a lot of the weight on solo shoulders. No child — myself included — likes to disappoint their parents, and in the case of my brother, I believe it was easier to see my face staring back at him from across the courtroom or on the other side of a monitor or plexiglass. To him, I was known, and I was safe. And although sometimes I would raise my voice, he knew that there was no judging, no accusing, no direct anger. There was just love and a desire to protect him. I was known, and I was safe.
I wish he were sitting here on this island, on this beach, in my place. I wish I could trade my life for his, so that he could be here, and be free. More than anything, I just want him to be free. But they say that an addict is an addict, even if they’re clean.
Sometimes life has a way of bringing two people together. From opposite ends of the earth, we arrived at the same place, at the same time, and we were able to share something valuable. And although talking about it won’t change it… it offers a sense of comfort, and helps you to feel less alone.
