I’m happy right now in my life. For the first time in a few years, I’m truly, and genuinely happy. Lately, I’ve even had close friends tell me how I seem back to my old carefree-funny-life of the party- self. I’ve accomplished a lot in the last few months. Well, years really. But in these last few months I’ve met exciting, big life landmarks that have me feeling proud of myself. Have me smiling. Have me looking back at my journey, and hard work, and seeing how I’ve overcome it all. It wasn’t always pretty, but the ugly parts contributed to my growth, and without those ugly moments, maybe I wouldn’t have as much to be proud of, because maybe I wouldn’t have learned from them. However, I was driving the other day, crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge heading into New Jersey. I noticed a sum of traffic flooding the bridge gates on the Jersey side, trying to get into Philadelphia. The day my brother died, my sister and dad were rushing from New Jersey to get to the hospital located in philly, and didn’t make it in time to say goodbye to him. My sister cried to me as she told me they were in traffic at the bridge gate for atleast 10 minutes, and had it not been for that traffic maybe they would’ve gotten to see him one last time. Seeing that traffic the other day was all it took to shake me to my core, and release an immediate stream of tears from my eyes as I sobbed alone in my car. One quick glance at those lines behind the toll booths brought me back to that day, and took this reclaimed happiness from me.

And then came the guilt..

All of this elation and I forgot to be sad for my brother. I forgot that he’s not here to enjoy these exciting times with me. That he’ll never get to experience joy again. Or anything for that matter. How horrible of a sister am I? For moving on, in a way. At least that’s what it feels like. Life has continued around me, so I moved with it.

My sister just got engaged, pregnant, and staying sober (7 months!!) for her baby! This is news my family is celebrating! Throwing her showers! Preparing for a wedding! Anxiously awaiting to meet a new family member, my new niece! So much sweet joy! So much love surrounding these new moments! All without him.

I graduated college after 10 long years of not knowing what I wanted to do. The only person in my (immediate) family, might I add, to ever graduate! I took my boards exam, passed on the first try, received my license to practice, and can now add 3 letters behind my name that I’m extremely proud of! So much to be celebrated! So many reasons to be happy! All without him.

Addiction has seemingly left my family, and for the first time in my adult life, we choose to talk to each other. My sister and I willingly hang out, not just on holidays! We talk throughout the week! She has become a selfless person, who is caring, and sweet, and thankful, and above all- sober and healthy! All things I’ve never seen from her. This is something I’m ecstatic over! And I know he would be so happy to see the woman she’s become, because before he passed, he was so worried about her. But he’s not here to see her transformation. He’s not here to see his little sister change her life. So I have to be the only sibling celebrating.

It feels odd. Are we allowed to celebrate all these big life moments without him? It feels like we’re just moving on, and shoving him in the past and leaving him there. My new niece will never even know him. What a strange thought. He’ll never know I finished school. He was so excited to see me succeed, and so amazed at how much I had learned. But he’ll never know I graduated, that I’m licensed, that I can now work with sick, bedridden patients who were on vents in the same way I worked with him.

He’s not here to be proud.

Writing that sentence makes me cry.

I haven’t figured out a way to describe the moving on process yet. Which is unfortunate because I have found I’ve done my best grieving when I write things down. All I can say is that it’s weird. I’m happy to find happiness again. But I feel gut-wrenchingly guilty to do it without him. The last 5 days, since I saw that traffic on the bridge, I’ve been trying to sort out these emotions. But I think above all, I’m still happy. And I’m learning. I don’t think you ever really stop learning about yourself after a tragedy, but I’m letting that be a good thing. Because I’m learning that it’s okay to still feel out my sadness when it comes on. That I don’t have to let that sadness control me. That sad moments don’t have to mean I can’t be happy. That he wanted me to move on, and go be great. And I’m thankful I got to hear him tell me those words on July 5th, 2018, the Thursday before he died. Not everyone gets to hear those messages from their loved ones before they go. I’m learning that it’s ok to “move on” or whatever you want to call it. Because I’m never really moving on from him, or his life, or what he and his death taught me. It’s something I get to carry with me in all these new experiences and celebrations. So I’m learning to turn missing him into something beautiful. I’m learning to turn living life without him, into moments I know he’d be proud of. Im learning that I’m not really “moving on” but, at my own pace, I’m just going.

His hair is scraggly. Dark brown with pieces strung about his forehead going this way and that, as if he hasn’t seen a comb in years. Greasy. His skin dirty, his smile crooked, his teeth rotting. His eyes, sunken in, yet very aware. He’s scanning the scene, always scheming to find a way to get his next fix. He’s skinny as a rail.

She’s slumped over. Her left tank top strap has fallen off her shoulder as it no longer fits her. Hair thinning all over her head, while what remains of it frills out onto her neck, lying atop her shoulders in no neat way. She’s scratching at her arms as she waits for these few moments to pass by until she’s able to drift away into her next euphoric high. She’s talking to herself, as her eyelids start to twitch, and only the white of her eyes become visible.

These are your typical drug addicts, right?

Let me tell you about my drug addicts.

The boy drug addict would jump from couch to couch as a child dancing to “steppin’ time” from his favorite movie, Mary Poppins.

The girl drug addict would bring in rocks from the drive way and build “Pride Rock” for her Lion King figurines to play on.

He would hold a pot and a spoon and pretend he was cooking up carrot stew.

She wore footie pajamas as she carried around 3 stuffed Barney Dolls.

He had the brightest smile.

She went through a phase where she couldn’t figure out her smile. It was straight across to show all her teeth as she’d close her eyes tight sending wrinkles across the ends of her cheeks. Those pictures still make me laugh

He fought a bully after school for me when he made fun of my glasses.

She played mermaid in the bathtub with me for hours.

He woke me up every single Christmas Eve Night, to go sneak into the living room to look at our presents. Then we’d go back to his room to sleep in his bed, while we waited anxiously for the first sign of mornings light.

She would stay up and talk and laugh with me all night long until one of our parents came in to yell at us to get to sleep.

He could make a friend anywhere he went.

She had friends everywhere she went.

He had the funniest, most playful sense of humor.

She was an amazing softball player.

He was a tremendous baseball player.

She used to make spaghetti sandwiches.

He always stood up for the underdog.

She climbed trees with me.

He let me play in neighborhood football or baseball games. Even when he didn’t want me to. Which was most of the time.

They had water fights with me in the summertime, and spent countless hours in the pool with me. They walked to the bus stop with me 180 days out of the school year. They watched Saturday morning cartoons with me in our pajamas as we slurped the milk out of our cereal bowls. They played school with me, where he was always the teacher, and forced she and I to listen to all of his commands. They spent every one of my birthdays singing to me while I blew out the candles. They were there when I cried. They were there when I laughed. They made me cry. They made me laugh. They were there when I broke bones. They were there when pets died. They boogie boarded with me. They chased the ice cream truck with me. They built igloos with me, and indulged in the award winning diet of hot chocolate and ramen noodles on snow days home from school. They were there on my sick days. They watched movies with me. They played video games with me. They roasted marshmallows with me on summer nights. They sang songs with me at the top of our lungs. They played the punch buggy game with me. They raced me on my bike. We played hot lava with all of our living room furniture, pillows, and blankets. They woke up with me every morning, and went to bed with me every night. We held hands, we kissed, we hugged. They taught me love and they taught me pain.. both physical and mental. They were there in the good, and they were there in the bad. They were my best friends.

They don’t quite fit the picture of drug addicts, do they?

I don’t understand why there is still such a stereotype behind drug addicts when some of the biggest offenders are now of middle class, however I hope I was able to paint a different picture. I hope that instead of judging, you wonder about their story. You wonder if they have friends worried about them. You wonder if they have parents at home who don’t get off praying knees, begging God to make their children healthy. You wonder if they have lost someone. You wonder if they have a sister sitting behind a screen with tears in her eyes as she writes about how much she misses her brother, and wants her sister healthy. You just never know the people they used to be, and the people behind them, longing for their recovery. Or dealing with the fact that they’ll never see them again. Put your judgements aside and use compassion as you think of how their life is in dismay, and the people in it are suffering from broken hearts.

It has been one year since I lost my brother. 365 days and it seems to be getting harder instead of easier. Social media only ever shows the good, but I’m going to share the bad. The real, raw feelings I’ve been struggling with for the last year. Because I think people need a reminder that it’s okay to not be okay. And if anything comes out of my brothers death, I’d love nothing more than to help other people who are going through a traumatic experience in the same way I am. And social media, believe it or not, isn’t just for wishing Becky a happy birthday, or posting your meals, but it’s a platform to reach other people.

Every day is a different type of struggle. Some days easier than others. Most days though, my thoughts consume me. No matter how hard I try and busy myself, no matter where I am, these thoughts prevail. I may be running on the treadmill, or opening up the refrigerator door, and BAM there it is- it hits me like a ton of bricks, hard enough to knock the wind out of me- An unprovoked flashback of the minutes that I watched him die. I see his eyes. All the time, I see his eyes in that moment. Right before they went lifeless. That is a heavy, heavy memory for me to carry around. Sometimes this flashback seems so real that it still makes me cry. Couple this with the daily feelings of guilt and regret that I chose not to speak to him for a few years because of the lifestyle he was living. If only I knew there was a timeframe. I’d give anything to get those years back, and talk to him. Because now time goes by, and I can’t talk to him, but this time, it’s not by choice.

And I’ve dealt with it all for a whole year now. And truthfully, I haven’t always dealt with it in a healthy way. My biggest strategy is keeping myself busy with school work, or friends, anything I can do to avoid bringing up feelings. To occupy my mind. But it really bites me in the ass when the feelings pile up, and have to get out and I misdirect my anger at some poor soul who got caught in the crossfire. And I’m aware that I’m not always alright. I’m not always the happy, outgoing, funny person most people know me to be. Some days I’m sad. And I don’t feel like smiling just because it’s other people’s expectations. Some days, I have breakdowns. And that’s ok, because I learned that I need to allow myself to feel sad. And I need to give myself some credit. I’ve learned at such a young age, to live with such a heavy burden. That it’s ok to keep going.

Before he died, we spent so much time together. He told me he wouldn’t want me to be sad. He told me how proud he was of me, and how impressed he was at my knowledge and all I’ve learned in school. He mended our previously tarnished relationship by telling me he understood why I didn’t talk to him for a few years, and how sorry he was for the things he had done, but that he never gave up on me. He made me laugh again. He made me feel important to him again. I had thoughts of a future relationship with him, spending holidays together again, and hanging out with him because I wanted to! Because he had so quickly become my best friend again! I hated the days I couldn’t be at the hospital with him, because I missed him. But he reminded me often to go have fun. Instead of visiting him, some days he made me go to the beach, he once made me go to a concert that my friends were going to, even though I didn’t want to because I didn’t want to be far from him. He told me over and over to make sure I spent time enjoying myself, because I had been doing so much for him. So Johnny, I’ll never move on from this hurt, and there will always be that feeling that something is missing. My gut will always feel knotted when I remember that awful moment. But I will happily take with me some other, very special memories. Little by little, I will pick up the pieces, and keep going like you wanted me to, but I’ve learned not to rush. There is no timeline for grief. There is no way to simply “get over” a death. I can only hope that I am making you proud, and following all the advice you gave me, about Kerri, about mom and dad, about my own life (however I’m sorry I didn’t quit PTA school to become a nurse. That advice is impossible, as you know I don’t do needles. But thank you for being my first PT patient). I miss you, everyday. And I will love you, always.

Love, your sister.

I can explain it best if you picture a lake. It’s a hot summer day in July. Your skin is warm from the sun, and you just spent your whole dollar wisely, picking out your favorite treat from the ice cream truck. You and your siblings are enjoying your firecracker popsicles, and snoopy ice cream bars before retreating back into the lake for the rest of the afternoon, sprinting to the water to outrun the hot sand on your feet. It’s your first day without swimmies, so your mom stands, wading ankle deep in the water, supervising. You’re ready to show her all you’ve learned in swim class! You’re time to shine! You adjust your plastic yellow goggles as she counts down from 3 to 1, take a deep breath, and plunge under the water to proudly sport your first doggy paddle as you kick your little legs with all the heart you’ve got! And you’ve done it! You swam on your own for the very first time! You come up from the water grinning ear to ear, waiting to hear claps and cheers from your parents… only they’re no longer watching. Your sister dunked her head under the lake and started coughing up water, taking over your parents’ attention, as they rushed to her aid. They’ve missed the whole show. All your hard work to be taken away. Your big moment, gone. Being the good sibling you are, you go see your sister. You tell her you’re glad she’s okay, as she sits on your moms lap, attached to her like a leech with eyes swollen from crying. You give her a hug and your parents tell you how proud of you they are for being such a good big sister, and they’ll watch you swim next time you come back to the lake. That’s what it’s like to live with siblings of addiction. You will never be the main focus.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • •

If you are a sibling of an addict, my advice would be to toughen up. Harsh, yes. But at-least I’m warning you. That was a lesson I learned on my own. For the rest of your life, everyone you know will be so concerned about what your siblings are doing and if they’re healthy, that you stand in their shadows. Because you’re the good one. And no one, truly no one, will ask YOU how YOU are doing. You’ll bump into an old neighbor at the supermarket and they’ll ask “How’s your brother doing?” You May have a run in with an old teacher who will ask “How has your sister been?” Your brother might die, and someone’s first question to you may be “How is your mom handling things? And Dad? Is he ok?” But I promise you, no one will ever ask “How are you?” And believe me, inside you’re cracking. Almost to the point where you don’t want anyone to ask how you’re doing, because you may accidentally unleash 27 years of trauma that not even a licensed therapist may be equipped to handle. So you politely respond “they’re ok” and smile through the rest of the conversation and go about your grocery list, until you get to the car and fight back the breakdown that’s been banging at your metaphorically emotional door. For years.

You are the tough one. You are the brave one. You are the one who is always laughing. You are the one who has her head on straight.

And so, it is presumed that you are ok. You are forgotten.

You accept the way things are. You want your siblings to get help of course, but the focus on getting them help leaves you in the dust. So you move on. You do things for you. And in the midst of this you subconsciously build a wall, and while most of the building is done unknowingly, you eventually become aware of how high this wall has gotten, and still you add more bricks. You make your friends your family- add 10 bricks. You move away- 20 more bricks. You stop speaking to your siblings all together- 35 more bricks. I wonder how high I can build?

Doing things for you feels like the right thing to do. Everyone is so enveloped in your siblings life that you have to make your own path, without any help.

But you’re used to that by now.

After all, you’ve always been capable of taking care of yourself! So no one ever needs to be worried about you! You’ve always been fine! Remember, You’re the good one. Just keep being the happy, fun person we all know and love, you’ll work things out!

So you go, and you get accepted to school, in a very hard program, and for the next 2 years engulf yourself completely in bookwork, too busy for family- 25 more bricks. And you’re so close to finishing. And you look back at how hard of a road you’ve been down and think to yourself how your parents might notice this time, and be really proud of something YOU did instead of worried over something your siblings didn’t. This could be your moment!

But your perspective is put back into place and you’re smacked in the face with a cruel reality check the moment your dad asks you if you googled how to take care of a broken foot, when that is the very thing you spent 2 years learning how to do.

And you remember you’re always going to be overshadowed. And simply, forgotten. Keep adding those bricks.

Although often perceived as a question, when figuring out HOW the best way to begin sharing my story as a sibling who has been affected by addiction, it seems that a statement with a strong, bold period at the end brings foreward more of the emphasis I’m looking for. “Where to begin” is a question… “What do I say” is a question… “Why have a I found myself starting a blog at the ripe hour of 2:34am when the demons keep me up at night” is a question… But “HOW” … that is a statement.

I can write. Sure. Anyone can if they tried. I’m not an expert. I don’t claim to be. But I know it’s an outlet. And rather than spending another night wrestling with my 100% cotton duvet, and counting how many times I flip my pillow instead of how many sheep have jumped over my head, I decided tonight to use my outlet. Here’s the great thing about outlets, they’re a power source. When you plug a lamp into them, a lightbulb turns on. And I guess that is my hope with this blog. To use it as an outlet and shed light on the fact that I understand that although your sibling may be the one dealing with addiction, you’re struggling in a different way (So. Many. Ways.). And once I’m plugged in, maybe it will bring others into the light as well.

To introduce myself before you all think I’m some crazy lady babbling on about light sources, I’m Kelsey. I’m a middle sister. Well, I was a middle sister. I’m now just an older sister. I’m no longer a little sister. That is an adjustment I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to. I lost my brother on July 9th, 2018. Just over 6 months ago.

Here is where the “How” part of my previous rant kicks in. HOW in the hell am I to move on from here? In my writing? In sharing my story? From being the girl who’s brother died? Going back to a normal life? What about the whole, HOW did I find myself here thing? I most certainly did not picture myself sitting here at 3:46 in the morning, picking out a themed template for my media platform to speak about my dead brother, and my sister who still struggles with shooting heroin into her veins. Flowers or a meadow are a little too cheery for the occasion, don’t you agree? But if I pick the edgey picture of a coffee mug, I don’t want people thinking I’m reviewing the best-damn-slap-me-on-the-ass-vanilla-caramel-double-espresso-with-2-pumps-of-snickerdoodle-latte at the hottest new hipster bar in the city, and have people choke on their precious butterscotch muffins when they read of the gruesome, sad reality that is my life. I decided to go with the theme “misty mountains.” Seemed most fitting.

HOW did things get this bad, in so many ways? Bad enough that I’m here in the first place, writing to you people. Bad enough that I haven’t gotten more than 3 hours of sleep a night since my brother passed, and am instead forced to lie awake and battle my subconscious reliving the images that come persistently in the night like a pesky fly, of his dying face gasping for breath over, and over, and over again. Bad enough that my sister just checked herself back into rehab for the 18th time. Bad enough that she relapsed under my nose, on my own bathroom sink, and I believed she wasn’t doing it.. again. Bad enough that you don’t feel you can tell anyone, in fear of being a burden, because the trauma is too much to put on your friends, not to mention embarrassing. And your parents!? Well forget it, that’s out of the question! How can you, the only normal one in your family, go bother your parents about your feelings, when they are both learning how to be alone, split up, renting separate houses, and barely making ends meet financially, all while they deal with the fact they no longer have a son, and are probably only months away at this point from possibly losing their daughter, and kissing her goodbye as she’s dropped off at yet another rehab facility. How dare you think to tell them that you’re upset! Don’t you see what they’re going through!?

So I keep my feelings in.

And now I write.

And I hope this is an outlet. Because I’ve been sitting in the dark too long.