Last week, I received the call I had been dreading for over twenty years. My brother, Jason, was found dead from a heroin overdose at the age of 44. He spent his last moments alone in his car near a convenience store in Colorado. I use the term “died” rather than “passed away” because the latter evokes a serene image of a transition, which is far removed from the harsh reality of a heroin overdose. It represents a tragic end that no one deserves—a cruel interruption of a life that could have been so different.
As adults, Jason and I were not particularly close, and my emotions toward him were a complicated mix of love, frustration, and resentment. I watched helplessly as the vibrant boy who once illuminated every room around him succumbed to addiction, first to alcohol, then to cocaine, and ultimately to heroin. At the time of his passing, I hadn’t spoken to him in nearly three years—largely due to my own inability to reach out and a desire for self-preservation. Yet, he occupied my thoughts constantly, often bringing me to tears. How could someone with so much potential fall so far? How could he, who had every opportunity in life, end up homeless or in jail, battling addiction? And why was I spared from the same fate? We shared the same genes and were raised in the same chaotic household under an alcoholic father who abandoned us during our teenage years. The guilt of being the one who survived weighs heavily on me. What right do I have to live a life untouched by such darkness?
During our childhood, we were inseparable companions, pretending to be superheroes, athletes, or characters from our favorite shows. We helped each other navigate the perils of our neighborhood, always watching out for one another. I once convinced him to dress as Laura Ingalls from “Little House on the Prairie,” despite his protests. He complied, as he often did, for my sake. He was naturally athletic, charming, and had a magnetic personality that drew friends to him effortlessly.
My mother often clung to a story that she would share repeatedly, as if it were a mantra to convince herself that Jason could overcome his demons. It was the moment he walked forward at a Billy Graham convention, holding my grandfather’s hand, to accept God into his life. “He walked forward at Billy Graham,” she would say. As time passed, her voice would waver, but her faith in his potential never faltered.
In his lowest moments, I would scream at him to just stop. I saw his addiction as a choice, not the all-consuming disease it truly is. Society may dismiss his death as the end of another “criminal junkie,” but they don’t know that he was a beloved son, cherished and missed by many. Even years later, people still approach me to share stories about the kind of person he was. He once cooked for former President Barack Obama when he catered the DNC National Convention in Denver, showcasing his talent and passion. He had a love for dogs, the vast skies of the West, and left an impact on everyone he encountered when he was sober.
Yet, the shadow of his addiction defined not only his life but also how those around him responded. We felt everything—love, fear, pity, and anger. Each phone call brought a tightness in my chest, waiting for news, whether good or bad. He oscillated between rehab and incarceration, forever trapped in the cycle of addiction that provided fleeting relief from his inner turmoil.
The news of his death hit me harder than I had imagined. When that call came, I thought I would respond with stoic acceptance, but instead, I found myself curled up, mourning the loss of his life, his talents, and the hope I held for his recovery. May you rest in peace, dear brother.
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Summary
This poignant reflection on the author’s brother’s struggle with addiction reveals the complexities of familial love and loss. The narrative highlights the impact of addiction on relationships and the emotional turmoil faced by those left behind. It emphasizes the importance of understanding addiction as a disease rather than a choice, encouraging empathy and awareness.