I laughed as I read his text, and quickly responded with the next line. My younger brother and I have been quoting movie lines to each other for as long as I can remember. Our humorous exchanges occur so frequently that only one of us needs to say a few words before the other immediately starts laughing.
I desperately wanted to take in that moment and simply enjoy our familiar banter. Yet, my mind was distracted by the thought of not asking him, “How are you doing?” A normally innocent question now loaded with insinuation.
You see, my younger brother is an alcoholic. I struggle to even call him that. My normal explanation is that he “struggles with alcohol” or “struggles with addiction.” The truth is that me packaging his condition to be more palatable doesn’t make it any less true, less painful, or less complex.
This complexity is something I am trying to come to terms with. It’s extremely complicated, because you are in a constant state of dissonance as the family member of an alcoholic. You’re challenged with balancing what was, what is, and what you hope for as you walk alongside your loved one.
My heart holds onto what was. My brother is an incredible human being. He’s funny, kind, and hard working. At 6’3” he towers over my older sister and me. When people meet him, they’re always shocked as they question, “He’s your little brother?” He gets a kick out of that.
Growing up he was my partner in crime, always ready to do something mischievous with me to annoy our older sister. He was the sweet brother who slept in our room the night before our first day of school, so we could all talk about our excitement for the new school year. He grew into “Uncle Mar,” the caring, gentle giant of an uncle to my young niece and nephews.
This is why it’s so difficult to fully admit and accept what is.
My brother is 30 years old now, and he has struggled with alcohol for longer than anyone closest to him ever realized. I remember talking to him when he was in a substance abuse facility last year. He told me he’d been drinking since age 15. I couldn’t fathom how this was even possible. Then again, I couldn’t fathom how anything my family was currently going through with my brother was possible.
In January 2022, we admitted him into two different substance abuse facilities. We were hopeful that he would finally be receiving the help he desperately needed. But his constant phone calls begging to come home never stopped. His hallucinations worsened as the effects of alcohol withdrawal set in. And his increasing paranoia led him to sign an Against Medical Advice (AMA) form, checking himself out of the first facility.
My brother promised us that he was done drinking for good, but anyone with a loved one battling addiction knows this is much easier said than done. It was just days later that he began drinking again and begged my mother to take him to another facility. Although he did better the second time around that wouldn’t be the end of his war or ours as we stood beside him.
Supporting your loved one on their road to recovery feels just as complicated as not only admitting that your family member is an alcoholic but also wrestling with the contrast between who they currently are and what you desire for them.
Some days my brother showed improvements as he met with a psychiatrist, took medicine to stop the hallucinations, and refrained from alcohol. Other days my mother would have to call the police to help find him as he had wandered off, paranoid that people were trying to kill him.
How do you find balance walking beside your loved one when the journey forces your mindset into an uncomfortable tension after every step you take?
How do you encourage your brother to keep attending AA meetings in one breath and assure him that no one is trying to eat him in the next?
How do you try your best to treat him as “normal” while remembering that he recently picked up scissors and said voices told him to kill his parents?
How do you get him to understand that just one small sip will lead to more when you know the sickness has clouded his judgment?
I don’t live in the same state as my younger brother, so you can imagine how difficult it was for me trying to juggle this balancing act over the phone. That’s why my mind raced as I contemplated texting him the simple yet implicitly accusatory question, “How are you?”
Because, as of late, this has become more than a question for me. It’s the war between knowing who my brother was, seeing what this addiction has done to him, and understanding the progress he’s made while still hoping for full recovery—all with tempered expectations because a relapse is always possible.
Exhausting to read that right? Try living it.
I am so grateful that my brother has been doing well lately. He hasn’t drunk alcohol in months, he’s consistently working, and he seems committed to not going back. He’s happy and driven, and he reminds me of the little brother I have always known.
Just one year ago, I remember him calling me a few days after he came home from a substance abuse facility. He sounded so calm, clearheaded, and like himself. I felt hope spring within me. And then he said, “I don’t want to talk too loudly, but I have to tell you that they are trying to eat me. They are trying to kill me. I know they’re listening right now.”
He said this so calmly and clearly, without a hint of agitation or paranoia in his voice. I remember tears rolling down my cheeks as I responded, “Just don’t focus on them, okay?”
I remember my heart aching at the realization that this may be the new norm. This delicate dance of cognitive dissonance and this balance of reality and hope, where the reality is a subtle, deceptive sickness ready to remind you at any moment that it’s still very much on the dance floor.
And now, present day, I find myself still struggling with this new norm. Although my brother is doing much better and the concerns about his health aren’t as urgent, the temptation to wonder is still there.
He seems to be doing well, but will he relapse?
Is he cleverly concealing his drinking?
Should I check on his mental status?
Who the person was, who the person is, and who you hope they will become are very hard to wrestle with when you’re supporting a loved one who struggles with addiction. And I can only imagine how fighting against this cognitive dissonance is even more strenuous for someone like my brother.
He undoubtedly has an internal war waging between what he’s been through and where he wants to be—a war made increasingly difficult each time he is faced with subtle reminders of his past actions.
That is why, on that particular day, I finally decided to sit on the sidelines. I made a difficult, yet conscious decision to not burden myself with the tension of what was, what is, and what I hope for. Although I knew that moment wouldn’t last, I simply chose to be present.
“I love you, man,” I typed back to my brother’s text, making sure I included my signature heart emoji. My mind eased at the reminder that my feelings for him will never reflect this uncertain journey, regardless of who my brother was, who he is now, or whoever I hope he will be.
