I spoke to a sibling today.
Well, not exactly a sibling. But the closest in likeliness.
It’s strange what a year of silence can do to people – it makes them distant possibilities.
We talked, somewhat like near-grown up adolescents.
Or adults in denial.
To me, he froze at twenty, the first time he went to rehab. I knew him till he got there, and out of hand. He’d told me, eyes glazed-sunken and speech slurred, the day he finished his third rehab session, life fucks you up, kid. Promise me you’ll never touch this shit.
It came crashing down at twenty.
It cannot get past me that he is twenty five. I don’t think it gets past him either.
I think I can deal with my demons now.
I lost count of the number of times he relapsed. Everytime I spoke to him then, he didn’t deny himself the future possibility of reuse: I don’t want to lie to myself.
I listened to him, distant. How much longer will he put himself through this?
I don’t know about maturity, he scoffed. But I make my choices everyday. And that’s what’s empowering – that I have that choice, everyday.
Clean for nine months. He’s writing his graduation exams this year. We graduate together.
He’d meticulously deconstructed his life for five years. Rebuilding seems.. onerous. One day at a time, baby. One day at a time.
I do family therapy now, and we both laughed.
I love you. And this time, I’m hoping.