She always heard that we always take from our surroundings, that parents were to blame, and that people only do what they are taught. She grew up in small towns across North Carolina with her two brothers and their single mother, their mother struggled with alcohol and drugs. She had stayed sober for ten years but eventually relapsed. Addiction ran in the family, but not all of them fell into it. She wondered how that was possible. She saw the good in her brothers, but she also saw the darkness within them.
Several years ago, one of her brothers reached out after a five-year period of no contact. He wanted help and asked to go to a treatment center. She took him there the next day. He stayed for more than a year and seemed serious about changing. She let him move in and gave him a job at her company. At first, he did well. He tried to be involved in his son’s life and worked hard at the job. He seemed focused and really wanted to change. But after about a year and a half, his old habits came back. They watched him slowly fall apart. He started coming home late, arriving late to work, and switching between periods of intense activity and extended periods of sleep. They argued with him, begged him to stay on track, and tried everything they could think of, but nothing helped. Finally, she had to ask him to leave and let him go from the job. It hurt her, but she needed to protect her family and keep them safe.
She wrote him a letter, hoping he would see it. She reminded him that they had been proud of him. She said the only way she could help now was through prayer and not losing hope. She stopped blaming herself for his choices, at least most of the time. She thought about how destructive drugs were. They destroyed almost everything that mattered: family, trust, stability, and hope. She knew her brother had tickets, drug charges, and a dangerous crowd. She knew he would not always be able to make it to court and that skipping it could ruin him. She faced the reality that his choices kept destroying his life.
She prayed for him, even hoping he might get arrested, as she thought it was the only way to keep him safe. She wanted him off the streets and away from the people who would lead him into trouble. She wanted him to have a chance to start over and rebuild his life, even if he didn’t understand why she was doing it. She wanted him to be away from the chaos; she wanted to give him space to make better choices and see a way forward, even if it took time for him to realize it. Watching her brothers struggle had cost her years of peace. She had spent time away from family to protect her children from the chaos. She felt guilty, angry, terrified, and confused. She worried they might die without knowing how much they were loved. She realized that loving an addict did not mean sharing their choices.
One brother now sat in jail, the other in prison. The brother in jail talked about going back to treatment. All she could do was hope and wait. She wanted others to see the side of addiction nobody talks about: the people who carry the weight for someone else. She wanted people to know that no one had to be a product of their environment. There was always a choice. She still believed there was hope. Hope that her brothers would realize they were loved, that they would find themselves again. Hope that they would heal. And even when addiction was there, love could remain.
