Troy

I have an older brother. As I’ve mentioned his existence on here before, this shouldn’t be an actual surprise to many of you. However, in my real, everyday life this is news to many folks. I usually follow it with a dismissive- We aren’t close-to shut down the follow up questions. It’s not a lie, we aren’t close. He doesn’t have my phone number, or if he does, he knows not to use it. We aren't Facebook friends and don't know each other's address. We only communicate via Instagram chat, and that is a development over the last year.

Why do I bring him up now? On my flight last week, I watched Bohemian Rhapsody (I love Queen so much) and A Star Is Born. Addiction is portrayed in a lot of ways by the media- usually with more sex appeal than the reality. And these were no different. Coupled with the onslaught in the news about the opioid crisis in America, and I figured it was past time to tell my story and give my reality to addiction. 

Troy is a year and a half older than me. People thought we were twins growing up, and that I was the dumb one because I was the grade behind. He was my savior and tormentor- as any big brother should be. He started experimenting with drugs at 14, OD’ed for the first time at 16, his first arrest was at 24, there were a string of failed rehabs from 17-26, and finally prison at 32. His addiction ruled my life starting at 13 years old, and for all intents and purposes, I lost most of my childhood to Oxy. After 20 years, my family is just starting to repair from the breaks that it created. 

Bless my parents, they tried desperately to keep me out of the battle, but in a three-bedroom house fights were hard to ignore; as were finding the needles stashed in the bathroom, or having him come home blitzed out of his mind. It’s hard to watch your idol fall from grace, harder still to watch him methodically kill himself and realize there is nothing that can stop it. But that is what happened. At first it was just a slip. He was in 8th grade trying to be cool and smoked a little weed. Kids do that. My big brother would be back. But as the years whirled on, I saw less and less of the big brother I had known and more and more of the angry, dazed guy who had moved into the room down the hall.

As I got older, I got better at recognizing the signs that the clean days were coming to an end and it was time to pull back, but it wasn’t until I was 26 that I hit my breaking point. We were both living in NYC at the time, he came up for a last chance rehab, which he of course left early. He’d been living independently for a couple months, the signs were there. I ignored them. It was easy to lie to myself, I finally had that big brother I imagined and vaguely remembered. He had a girlfriend, an apartment, and a job - albeit a shady, off the books one. He’d come over for dinner, hang with my friends, and if he borrowed money I didn’t have - it was a small price to keep the lie alive. It was a great summer, but by Thanksgiving the truth came spilling out. He moved home to Florida and I was left with the pieces, a girlfriend (who had no idea he was an addict), a bounced check for more money than I had, and friends that saw the dirtiest, most raw part of my life. That was it for me. It hurt, but that was the last time I would let him truly in my life. My parent's respected (as much as they could) my decision and we would see each other at the holidays for the obligatory picture, but the relationship was over. 

Florida has a three-strike policy, and he hit his last strike four years ago. The sentence had a three year minimum, and he was released a year and a half ago. He has been clean for about two and a half years. It is the longest he has been clean since he was in high school. He has a job, he has the beginnings of a relationship with my parents, and a baby on the way. This is not a movie. The chances of him relapsing are still quite high (pun intended), and when he does the chances of him OD'ing are even higher. That is the reality here. I wrote him one letter in prison - at the urging of my therapist - I will never forget all the things he did to me and our family, but I have forgiven him because that was necessary for me to move on and to accept those years and how they shaped me. That is as generous as I am willing to be and I am okay with that. 

There is no magical happy ending here nor is there a tragedy. There is just the reality of living with addiction. It doesn't go away, it carries on and weighs on those that will always be held in its sticky grasp - waiting for the other shoe to drop, for that phone call, and even if those never come, we can't help but prepare for them.