My brother and I had the typical older-sister, younger-brother relationship. He loved to annoy me and I wanted to boss him around. I am five years older so we didn't really share friends or activities but we always got along well. That all changed in 2013 when my mom died.
Sorrow does strange things to people. My brother and I dealt with it differently. He was 18 then and put his feelings into finishing his final year of high school. I turned to drug. I'd been using a painkiller for years to help with my kidney disease and I'd never abused it. But that changed in a moment. My mother's death took over my life. I remember swallowing a handful of painkillers and then calling a local drug dealer to bring me more pills.
My addiction progressed and I became even more irresponsible. I even risked losing my son when child protective services became concerned enough about my ability to be a good parent. I'll never forget the fear on my brother's face when he came to the police station. My brother was confused by my decisions. He didn't realize addiction was a mental illness. I could see the anger and hopelessness in his eyes. Seeing him walk away from me was one of the worst feelings I've ever experienced.
I started treatment. As my brother saw the work I put into my recovery, he began to let go of his anger. Little by little, we repaired our relationship. I know our mother would be proud. I remember someone telling me that my mother's death would either destroy our family or bring us closer. At first, it tore our family apart but, from ashes to beauty, I firmly believe her death and all of the hardship along the way have made us closer than ever. I am forever grateful.
