The Curse of Addiction
A Life Lost
I want to share the pain of addiction. How it affects and destroys the lives of not only the addict but of those who love them and are witness to the devastation it causes.
A couple of months ago my brother Bruce passed away.
You may have seen him on the street or on a bus. He was that guy you tried to avoid. Disheveled, and dirty, often smelled like he hadn’t showered in days. Which he probably hadn’t. He may have been drunk or high and may have been rambling about the thoughts that occupied his mind.
I knew another man and had seen glimpses of him throughout my brother’s life. He loved to read and often had a book with him. When he was straight he was articulate and passionate about the things he cared about most like the environment, science, politics, and sports.
He couldn’t hold a job although he did drive a taxi for a couple of years. The trouble is you probably didn’t want to be in the taxi with him because it was also his home and smelled as bad as he did.
At one time he was handsome. A strong jaw, blue eyes, and a muscular, fit physique from years of Ju-Jitsu training (karate). He had big dreams of one day becoming a world champion or even taking part in the Olympics. When he was young it seemed like it was a possibility. But as he aged and his addiction took its toll, it became just another one of his unfulfilled imaginings.
His face became weathered from living on the streets, the pockmarks were symptoms of the hard drugs he was putting into his body. The veins on his arms and legs collapsed from needles. His nose misshapen and scars across his once beautiful face from street fights. His once straight white teeth became brown, chipped, and rotten from years of neglect. His blue eyes became sunken and permanently glassy.
I remember when he was 16 he quit school and ran away from home. My parents were not surprised but they were scared for him. They called the police but were told there was nothing they could do because at 16 he was no longer a minor.
He eventually came back and he and my father fought and argued. My dad was always trying to get him to understand what a mistake he was making with his life. That he needed to buck up and get back on the right path. But my brother didn’t listen, he only cared about getting high.
My father had his own struggles with alcoholism but he was a regular AA member and despite a few lapses, was able to stay sober. He shared what he had learned. My brother even attended AA barbecues with our family. He would hear the same painful stories of each recovering alcoholic or addict, that we all did. But for him, they were never enough to convince him to change.
Through the years he would repeat the pattern of disappearing for weeks or months until one day he would walk into the house and act like he had never been away. He would shower, and get a good night's sleep on the floor of the basement family room before he would vanish again.
He liked to come home for Christmas, picking up small gifts for everyone at the nearby drug store (the only retailer still open on Christmas Eve) and would usually receive a shirt, sweater, socks, things my mom knew he would need. I’d often buy him a pack of smokes because I knew he didn’t want much else. It was usually a happy time, surrounded by family, love, lots of good food, and our family’s holiday traditions. But the arguments between him and my dad became their only way of communicating. And more than one family gathering would end up with him storming out the door.
I looked up to him when I was younger. His athleticism and good looks always made him popular. We got along well even though I didn’t understand the disease of addiction and why he couldn’t just stop. I didn’t know what demons he was battling or what had pushed him to choose this life for himself.
When he would come home he always needed money and I always seemed to have some. I had numerous jobs from mowing lawns to babysitting so he always knew he could come to me for some cash. And I could never refuse him. I might argue a bit but I would always hand it over, thinking I was helping my big brother and protecting him from starving or freezing to death. My parents always chastised me for giving him my hard earned money but he knew I could never say no. As I got older I realized the money wasn’t going to food or shelter but to booze and drugs.
One time when we hadn’t seen him for several months, my mom and sister came across him downtown. He was literally passed out on the sidewalk. They didn’t stop as they stepped past him, but it shocked them at the depths he had fallen and they never forgot what they had seen.
At one point as the years took their toll, he was assessed by mental health experts who diagnosed him with drug and alcohol-induced dementia. He was placed in a care facility where he finally received regular meals, proper medication, and regular showers. Another brother became his caregiver, signing whatever documents were required and visiting him regularly. This had become his life and that’s where he died.
Today I am trying to focus on the good times and my good memories. He struggled with addiction his entire life but I hope that now he has finally left his demons behind. RIP. ♥️♥️♥️
