Unaccounted Diseases

My brother is an addict. But that is just one of the many things that he is. On top of his addiction, he is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a mental illness sometimes referred to as a manic depression. But although my friends and family may assume that he is nothing other than this addiction and illness, he is or was much more. He was valedictorian in high school, he was accepted to John Hopkins University, he made it to CIF for Track and Field all four years of high school, and he was president of who knows how many clubs. 

But on his first spring semester at college, my family became complicated. 

Although I wasn’t aware then, I later found out. I wasn’t aware that my brother had overdosed on a combination of methamphetamine and heroin. 

I was merely seven years old when this all occurred.

My dear brother stopped taking his medication and was in a manic state. He wasn’t aware of how much of the substances he had consumed. He had been awake for three days and decided that heroin would put him to sleep. However, he soon realized he had taken too much and tried to reverse the sleepy effect by taking methamphetamine. Of course, this came to be almost fatal. His roommate ended up finding him and immediately dialed 911. This caused a commotion at the university. I mean who wouldn’t notice an ambulance and police cars arriving at a pristine university? When the administration of the university found out what happened, my brother was kicked out. When searching his room, there were several baggies with the residue of methamphetamine, heroin, cocaine, and marijuana. 

This was only the beginning of something much more.

What my parents weren’t aware of was that my brother's drug use started a little after he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. See he was put on Trazodone and lithium, which he claimed made him feel like a different person and extremely exhausted. However, when you have been this praised student who does beyond what is expected, feeling tired and sleeping 12 hours is unacceptable. My brother felt that by telling our parents what was happening to him, they would be angry or even more disappointed than when they found out he had this illness. He resorted to another solution: Speed. 

It worked for a while. He continued being successful and in March he was notified of his acceptance at John Hopkins. By this time he was using for almost 4 months and what he once thought would just be a temporary thing to aid in school, became an everyday habit. 

My parents and I noticed he slept for hours sometimes even a whole day. Other times he’d be up all night. He began skipping dinner and arguing with my parents more and more. My mother attributed it to his illness and my dad figured he was just stressed. 

When he began college, his addiction only worsened. He stopped taking his meds. When he was hospitalized for his major overdose, my parents became less attentive towards me. You see my brother was constantly in and out of rehab. Each time my parents paid. The first time it seemed as if he wanted to get better. But when he came back home, I walked in on him shooting up. I was 8. I didn’t say anything. If I'm honest, I didn’t know what was going on myself. 

My parents constantly fought with my brother. Sometimes they’d get physical. Sometimes the neighbors would call the cops. 

At rehab, he was constantly depressed and was suffering from withdrawals. His only option was to take his meds. With his medication, he was the brother I knew and loved. Without them, he was unrecognizable.

When my brother was in rehab or out on a binge, we were all afraid or depressed. But when he was at home, there was obvious tension. One wrong movement and my parents and brother exploded in different directions to each other.

Around the fourth time, he came back from a rehab center, my parents left him in charge of me. I was 13 years old. We watched movies and we bought some snacks. But then he told me he was going to the restroom. I didn’t think anything of it until 30 minutes had passed. I went to the restroom and it was unlocked. I opened the door to find him on the floor unconscious and with a needle in his arm. I panicked and tried waking him up. I didn’t know whether to call my parents or 911. But I knew calling 911 would be the better choice for my brother's survival. When the officers arrived they asked what happened, where my parents were, why did I wait to call, etc. When my parents were notified, they were fuming. 

At the emergency room, he was in a bed laying down with a tube down his throat and an IV on his arm. After around 4 hours, he finally woke up. As soon as he did my parents began yelling and he began yelling back. Again my age, my feelings, my childhood, was not taken into consideration.

“We trusted you, Isaiah! She’s thirteen and look at her! She was so scared you weren’t going to make it. And you know what? She told us she was scared of calling because she’d knew you’d be in trouble. I swear to God Isaiah! You have become useless. Useless.” ,

Before I could blink, my brother pulled off the tubes and IV off of himself and he ran off. As he ran my parents yelled, “Don’t you dare come back!”

Later on that night he came back and my parents accepted him with open arms and apologies.

My brother would always call me at two sometimes up to six am to open the door. At this point, I knew he had a problem and I still opened the door willingly. Never informing my parents. I asked him once why he couldn’t just stop.

“Do you remember that one-time mom and dad left me in charge of you and I went out and left you alone? You were alone and you felt lost even though you were home. And even though you had the television and board games and phone, nothing seemed to take away the boredom on top of the loneliness. And to add on you were starving. All you ate was a few grapes. Eventually, I came home and I brought some cheap pizza I bought from down the store. You ate it all and you hugged me. You told me you felt much better. That you felt at peace. Well, all those emotions you felt before me coming home, is how I feel when I’m not high. And when I’m high, I feel at peace. I feel like I’m being hugged by God. Or an imitation God. But it beats feeling the way you did that day.”

Every time my brother seems to mess up, he’s forgiven.

Of course, not without a fight.

Seeing as there was always some sort of conflict between my parents and brother, I never invited friends over. I never told people I had a brother.

  My brother was 24 now and he still lived with us. But at home, I was never at peace. 

At least not anymore. Everyday something went wrong. But I had become so used to this that calling 911 or simply hearing them yell no longer brought me anxiety.

I never really talked about anything that happened at home with anyone. I mean why would I? 

I figured I’d go on to college, become something, and not have to deal with my family and their issues. I’d never have to talk about them.

But it wasn’t that simple. I missed a couple of days of school because I wanted to make sure my brother didn’t overdose. He had just come out of rehab again and I didn’t want him to go back. I didn’t want my parents to get mad. I told my parents I felt sick and they allowed me to stay home. But eventually, my teachers noticed I was constantly tired and unfocused. I’d stay up until 4-5 am to make sure he didn’t leave. 

When they questioned me I’d simply say I had a little trouble sleeping because of our neighbor's dogs. 

This lie eventually stopped working. Soon enough my grades went down. But at least the arguing stopped. My brother was 30 days sober. 

Then one day, during lunch, the school’s guidance counselor called me in. 

“Good afternoon Roseaphenie. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you for a few seconds. Don’t worry you’re not in trouble sweetie.”

I agreed and I sat on her torn blue chair. 

“So I have noticed a drop in your grades lately. You are one of our top students here and I was just curious if there’s something you need from us or is there something going on at home.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. 

“ Well, I mean yeah. Just some personal things.”

I was hoping I made it clear I didn’t want to talk about it. But she hit me with more questions.

“Do you want to talk about it? You can trust me. Is it about your parents? A friend? Yourself? Is it woman things?”

Eventually, I became lost in her words and I could feel myself heating up. I could hear her, I just didn’t understand anything. 

And then I snapped. I couldn’t anymore. I couldn’t keep listening to her questions and I yelled:

“Look, I sleep until 5 am to make sure my drug addict brother doesn’t kill himself with drugs! And I make sure he takes his meds so he doesn’t go manic! And I do it because my parents are always arguing with him and I can’t do it any more okay? I just want them to be okay and happy. I’m just tired.”

I walked out and went to class.

When I came home, my parents were sitting at the kitchen table looking as serious as ever.

“Ro, can you come to sit with us. We need to talk to you about something.”

I had heard similar words in shows and movies when a child does something wrong, and therefore I was scared. I was. Then I realized what I did earlier, I told a guidance counselor what went on at home.

“The guidance counselor called us today saying you lashed out on her. She said you yelled out something along having to stay up because of your drug addict brother and not wanting us to fight?”

Silence.

I didn’t know how to respond to something so brutally honest.

“Well yeah. I didn’t mean to. She just. She just was asking too many questions. I wanted to leave. I’m sorry to just kind of came out.”

My mom responded, "I know it has been rough with your brother. We argue a lot because of his diseases. We try our best to help him get better. It just becomes frustrating.”

“Your mother is right Ro. If we knew how this was impacting you and how you felt, we would have tried other ways to solve these issues. We truly are sorry for not being attentive to you. We love you. And we didn’t mean to. We just wanted to help our son. I love you and your brother deeply.”

My brother walked in and told me he was sorry and regretful for the things he's done and the way I felt. That he would try harder to stay sober. To be more considerate. 

I ended up going to see my guidance counselor once a week and we discussed things at home and how I was feeling. If I'm honest, I was afraid of talking about myself and my life to a stranger. But now she has become, in a sense, a friend. She’s someone I could talk to without feeling judged or having my information spread. My brother voluntarily checked in to a rehab facility and was put into treatment for his mental illness and addiction. He came out 4 months later and he finally looked healthy. 

The best part of everything was that my parents went to meetings that discussed how to treat your child with an addiction and how to avoid neglect for your other children. Although I saw them as pointless and useless for my parents, I saw a change. They didn’t lose their temper with my brother and tried talking things out before the yelling. It was strange. But a much better feeling than before. 

One thing is for certain is that nothing would have changed if I didn't speak up. Even if I didn't mean to at the time, it was necessary for the bettering of my situation. It put an end to my family's conflict and I know it could for many other families.