Addiction; My Story

He was shaking uncontrollably. Almost as if he was convulsing with seizure, except he was lucid. So high that he'd lost all muscle control. My mom held his head while he cried, and his girlfriend and I held down his legs so that he wouldn't attempt to get away.

That was the day I knew my brother was going to die

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When I tell the story of my brother (I don't tell it often), that's always the day that comes to mind first. The image of his intoxicated body thrashing around. The whaling sounds of his crying. The look of panic and fear in my mom's eyes. Our hearts beating so fiercely it hurt.

And the absolute certainty that he was not going to make it out alive Those things are still vivid, as if they happened just yesterday

Substance Use Disorder in Numbers for the U.S.

7.1 million with an illicit drug use disorder, and 2.6 million who had both an alcohol use and an illicit drug use disorder. The percentage of people aged 12 or older in 2014 who had an SUD (8.1 percent)
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That's 1 person for every 12.5 people (aged 12 and older) in the country will have substance abuse issues with illicit drugs. How many people in your work place does this equate to? How many people that you see in the grocery store, at the gas station, in the shopping center or in your church? 8% when you break it down like that is a staggering number.

Yet You Still Never Believe It'll Be You

It's something that happens to other people. It's something you see in the movies or read about in the papers. You know it's a real thing, but you never expect it to become YOUR reality. Until it does...

Let's Start at the Beginning

In November of 1978 my parents gave me a best friend. In a lot of ways it was a New England uptopia, of sorts. It was a stable home with two parents and a tight-knit village of grandparents, aunts, uncles and close friends we called aunt and uncle. My dad worked a good job and my mom stayed home with us. I was not quite 5, and a baby brother was just about the best thing ever. I remember helping by fetching diapers for my mom. I'd care for my dolls along side my mom as she took care of my brother. The early years, in my memories, were simple and full of joy and love.

Not but a year later the baby had some severe issues with allergies. The doctor suggested the best thing for him was to pack up and move the family to the west. I don't remember the move at all, but have been told the story several times over. My mom, dad, brother and I, along with a dog and a cat took the long haul from Connecticut to southern California. My grandparents on my mom's side had just moved to Las Vegas, so it made sense. My uncle was in California and that was more attractive to my parents at the time. They were unsure of raising a family in Las Vegas. Turns out my parents couldn't make it on a single salary in So. Cal (in hindsight I now realize they were only in their mid-20s at the time). So we came to Las Vegas.

It was the kind of neighborhood everyone dreams about. Most of the home owners were young like my parents. There were kids in almost every home on our block. The parents hung out and the kids played in the front yard all day until dark. My brother was a sweet boy. Long lush curls, soft eyes and a kind soul. We still had a strong and stable household. Our parents were very much in love. My mom stayed home and was there for us every day after school. We weren't rich, but we had everything we needed and were able to go to private school.

My brother became a local soccer star. One of the best goal keepers in the country in his age group. He traveled and trained with some of the best coaches in the country. His club team went on to win several state tournaments and had a chance at going to nationals were all the best youth teams compete. His teammates were like family and my mom was president of the youth soccer association of Nevada. We were active, my parents were engaged.

We were happy

When my grandfather passed away in 1987 we built a new home so that my grandmother could move in. She'd always been the matriarch of the family, so it really was never a question. We moved into an upper middle class neighborhood. A nice 3200 sq ft home with a pool. Our happy little life continued, we just moved the village in with us.

And It All Changed In An Instant

It's now early in the 1990's. I'd gone away to college, my parents had a sudden (but amicable) divorce. He's growing up. But he's still a good kid. Soccer is taking off more than ever, he's dating, he's working as a referee for little kids' soccer. I'm talking to my mom on the phone from college and out of nowhere she asks a question I will never forget.

Oh, by the way, what is tweaking?

She said it so innocently. I froze. My mind was racing. Was somebody we know in trouble? Could it have been one of the soccer kids? Before I told her what it meant, I asked her why.

Your brother is writing about it in his journal

And That Was The Day Our Lives Changed Forever

Turns out that he has been doing meth for several months at that point. He was 15. Couldn't sleep at night so would stay up and journal. We always called my mom 'Snoop Dogg' because that's just the kind of mom she was. If she was in your room, she was going to look around for things. Annoyed us both to no end back then. But in hindsight, she was just being a good mom.

He was missing school a lot. We were in public school then (our choice) and he was kicked out. Fortunately his club soccer coach was the coach at another private high school and got him on based on athletics. Through relationship alone, we were able to get him through high school. Coach lobbied for him over and over again and they would allow him to remain in school. He graduated on time with his class. We really thought that was the end of it. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE came up to my parents saying how much they loved him and what a great kid he is, and they were all pulling for him.

We Thought It Was the End, But It Was Only the Beginning

Over the next year or so things got progressively worse. Meth turned into cocaine which got expensive and eventually led to crack. I'm rarely at a loss for words, but I have none. There is no way to help the world understand what crack addiction does to a person. Unless you've lived it, there is no movie, TV show or documentary that can help you understand how it feels to be either the addict or the people that love the addict. It's a monster like no other.

He'd go missing for weeks at a time. On his 17th birthday he was beat to a pulp simply for being white and in the wrong neighborhood for a white guy. He was at one point just 130 pounds. His teeth were like fragile china, cracking and nearly disintegrating. It was NEVER about the money, and only about getting him safe and healthy, but oh the money. Nearly hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash, jewelry and cars. He'd come down and come home. Cry and beg for help. We'd spend more thousands in rehabs, and he'd just walk out after a week or two.

He Was No Longer in Control of His Own Life

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There are dozens, if not hundreds, of stories I can tell about things that happened during the downward spiral. I will share a few that stand out in my mind

I had graduated from college, and was working my first 'real' job in the town I went to school. My mom was out of town at a soccer event (she needed some normalcy). He had been missing for 2 weeks, so we knew he was due to show up soon. Pattern was about a 2-3 week binge before he ran out of money. He'd sober up and find his way home. We'd put him in rehab, he'd leave, and repeat. I'm sitting on the couch and the phone rings. It's him.

There was nothing more painful than the sound of his cry when he was coming down and felt remorse. The guilt and physical impact of coming off the drugs was intense

He tells me he is in San Francisco and had been staying at a homeless shelter. They only allow you to stay a certain amount of time before you have to leave. That time had come, and he was ready to get home. He asked me to buy him a plane ticket, which of course I did. I got him a ticket to Arizona, where I lived. I'd pick him up from the airport and drive him back to Las Vegas. The next day I left for the airport and I waited. And waited. And waited. His plane landed and I watched everyone come out of the jetway. One after one, none of them him. As each person left the gate area I knew in my heart he wasn't on that plane. Cell phones weren't common yet. I had no way to contact him. All I could do was more waiting.

A few days later he calls again. He's not crying this time, so I assume he's high. He says he went to the airport but they wouldn't let him on the plane because he didn't have ID. That he would need a bus ticket. I didn't have internet in my home yet, and told him I needed a minute to figure out how/what/where to do that. He asks me to western union the money to him instead. At that point we'd known better to send him money. But we also often didn't have options. He'd claim to need the money to pay somebody back. To get a ride home. Anything. We gave him money thinking we were keeping him safe. So I sent the money knowing full well what he was going to do with it.

Several days go by and he calls me again. The pain in his voice is different this time. He sounds worn down. He's not crying, but clearly not high. This time he sounds scared. He's at a church that has allowed him to stay until somebody can pick him up. He gives me the address and I hop in the car. I drove the nearly 900 miles in tears and panic. Would he be there when I got there? What would I find if he is there?

He wasn't there...

So I drove around the area looking for him. It was a long shot, but what else was I supposed to do? He needed me and I thought (I always thought this no matter how many times he proved me wrong) I thought that If I could just talk to him. Hug him and tell him that I love him. That we ALL love him and want to help. Then he would stop running and come home. Left without knowing what else to do, I purchased a bus ticket and left it with the people at the church. They offered to see him on the bus when and if he showed up.

Two Months Later He Arrived Home

I arrived at my mom's house in Las Vegas to help prepare for my bridal shower. My brother had been in and out of rehab at that time, and we were all playing it by ear as to whether or not he'd be able to make the wedding. With our best fake and forced smiles we proceeded with wedding planning. My mom doing her best to not let my brother's situation override my wedding day. I arrive, my mom is there and doing her best to be happy for me.

(My hands are shaking remembering this moment)

I look to my mom and I'll never forget what I saw that day.

Mom, what happened to your feet?

My mom is a horrible liar. She said she had fallen. Her feet were covered, literally every inch, covered in scabs. Swollen to the point she couldn't wear shoes. Come to find out my mom had been sleeping with her car keys under her pillow for months. He had been stealing cars from the family, and this was her way to try to prevent hers from being taken.

What really had happened is that he did steal her car. He did take the keys from under her pillow and start to drive away. Back then the ONLY reason he left the house was to find more drugs. My mom jumped on top of the car thinking he'd stop with her in the way.

He Just Kept Driving

My grandmother was a walking zombie. Her nerves and stress were so bad that she spent her last days dozed up on Xanax. My mom was nearly killed that day with the car. We'd picked him up so many times from the crack houses, that sometimes when he was missing my mom (who is 5'1" and 130 lbs) would walk right into these homes and demand to know where he was. Sometimes she would be successful sometimes she would not.

We had no more money to fund fancy private rehabilitation programs. My mom had to get a job. My grandmother spent most of her life's savings paying for treatment. He was in an out of jail constantly. It was so bad that we actually started to become grateful when he was in jail. Those were the only times we knew he was likely safe.

And Then a Miracle Happened

The day after we held him down while he shook uncontrollably, he checked himself in to yet another rehab program.
There was no money left. His only options were to stay until he detox'd and then they'd send him off again. The cycle repeated, each time the money the violence and the jail time grew worse. Until the Salvation Army took him in.

They saw what all of us in the old neighborhood and in the early high school years saw. We saw a really great kid who had really big troubles. They took a chance on him and they allowed him to participate in one of their youth programs.

They gave him a purpose

And that boy that we all knew and loved. My first best friend. My favorite playmate. The person that knew all my inside jokes. The guy that I had shared my entire life with. He was back.

Slowly his eyes changed from dull to glimmer. He gained some weight. He smiled and experienced real sober joy for the first time in years. We had him home for the holidays for the first time in 7-8 years.

Before my grandmother passed away, she got her only grandson back. He walked her down the aisle at my wedding. A moment she dreamed about but never thought would happen

That girlfriend, she became his wife.

Today he runs a very successful small business. He just purchased his dream home. And he's given my mom and I our greatest gifts in life. His three children.

I tell this story for a few reasons. First, because I think it's important to know that addiction can happen to anyone. We didn't have a traumatic childhood. There was no violence in our life or exposure to drug use in our childhood. There was no poverty or lack of parental guidance.

Also, to say, that if this is something you or someone you love suffers though, please from the bottom of my heart...

Never Give Up

Countless people told us to stop. That we needed tough love. That we were financially and emotionally destroying our family. He was worth it. And together, we did it. People that meet him today would never believe some of the stories we have. I told just the surface here. There are so many more violent, more extreme moments while we struggled to get him clean.

We Loved, and We Loved Hard