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.
A Sibling Estranged 