I lost my brother the other day…

In fact, I had lost him many times. I’ll explain.

The first time I remember losing him was when we were kids. He was a teenager and I was, well, 3 years younger. I was standing at the top of the stairs of our childhood split-level home, built in the 80s with a tiny landing at the front door and then stairs that went up to the main level and stairs that went down to the basement. My brother had just come home, late and under some form of chemical influence (again), and while my parents grilled him about some things and searched him, I stood there watching my brother; witnessing a version of him I didn’t like and didn’t know. It wasn’t who I grew up with - the version I grew up with was fun, kind, and could speak clearly. This version in front of me….couldn’t. This version was absent, lied and stole over and over and I was devastated. Where was my real brother? It had been awhile since I had seen him and at that moment there on the stairs, I realized that he was gone. Could he at least return so I could say goodbye? No. That never happened.

For the next many years, our family would agonize over him, his actions, the way we watched him torture himself and our family. The way it all spread like poison, destroying us from the inside out. I wondered, for a little while, if we would get him back. After a number of years, I lost hope and knew that we would not. The brother that I had grown up with, the one that invited me into the basketball game with his friends at recess to save me from sitting alone against the school building as a child, was gone. But that wasn’t it. In his place was an abusive, toxic, stressful, tortured form. Unrecognizable, but not. The light in his face had been hijacked and turned off. I’ll save the many, many details for a book that I’ll perhaps write in the future.

Fast forward to August of 2016 when his most current rehab stay took him to Boston. In past stays, he had spent time in the Worcester, Springfield, and Plymouth areas, so my Dad handled all of that, with me by his side whenever possible. This time, though, it was in my “area” so to speak and it felt great to have the opportunity to show him my life a little. I visited him at least twice a week, every week, and took him to lunch, ate with him on my awesome urban oasis (my little private deck off my 3rd story apartment in Somerville), gave him something to do when he was required to be “out”, took him to Target for weekly necessities. He was sweet and respectful - finally I had access to this version of him again! It was a lot, and it also felt like a gift. A stressful one that I was desperately hoping was only going to get better. Maybe it was possible that after all these years, I could get him back.

Until October 2016, when he was arrested. I still remember the stress I felt in my body minutes before I was about to teach my Sunday morning prenatal yoga class and had been waiting to hear about his whereabouts. I could barely breathe. Each breath was a deep and labored breath. You see, the night before, I realized that I hadn’t heard from him in a day or two and that wasn’t the norm. At that time, I was speaking with or texting him every day. I felt in my gut that something was wrong, so when I called to ask about him and I wasn’t allowed any information, my heart sank and I sobbed the entire night. The next morning, I was finally given a phone number to call for information. I called minutes before my class and realized it was the police station. After an excruciating day of wondering what had happened, scraping together bail money, wandering around the South End waiting for him to be released and seeing the state he was in, I realized that I had lost him. Again.

I don’t have words for the tears and screaming match that followed, once we had left the station, gotten into my car, and arrived back at the rehab center to collect his belongings. A counselor came out and helped to de-escalate the situation a bit for the moment. I could barely see the road through my tears as I drove him back to my Dad’s condo. My brother had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, so it was just me, my tears, and a new (yet, somewhat familiar) form of grief.

Here in 2024, and in 2023, I had to implement some firm boundaries with my brother. Something I wish I had done much sooner. He had played a major role in a lifetime of stress and trauma and I finally realized that I was no longer willing to allow it to be part of my life and affect me in the ways that it had for decades.

After no contact for nearly 8 months, I learned that he passed in his sleep. I was thankful to also learn that he had been living with family members and was doing well. After a few weeks of SO MANY emotions, I came to realize, and know, that certain things would not have been possible, for myself or for him, had I not followed through with what I needed to do to be responsible for my own life, health, and happiness. I learned that not only had it set me free, it had also done the same for him.

There is so, so much more to this story, but this excerpt poured out of me and I trust it has purpose on it’s own.

I hope it brings something meaningful to your life, my dear.

Lots of love,

Emily