Day Two

My eldest brother’s journey began when I was in second grade, and I started therapy shortly after, in third. A young girl trying to work through big feelings — abandonment, betrayal, and mistrust. I was eight.

Soon, my brother would be sent to prison, and those feelings would multiply. He would miss most of the important events in my life — award ceremonies, sports competitions, graduations, and birthdays. A few years later, my other brother would follow in his footsteps. He, too, would begin to wrestle with the demon of addiction.

As a result, I lashed out at him. How could you? After seeing what our older brother went through — what our parents went through, what we all went through — how could you choose this path? His choices hurt me even more. I felt alone. The very people who were supposed to be my biggest protectors were now hurting me in ways I couldn’t comprehend.

I blamed God. It’s not something I’m proud of. I spent countless nights praying for their recovery, begging that they would wake up one day, choose their family, and come home. But when that didn’t happen, I grew angry.

Why my family?
Why my parents’ children?

Outsiders — and even some family — blamed my mom and dad.
“They raised us wrong.”
“They didn’t discipline us enough.”
“They disciplined us too much.”
And other cruel, untrue things.

They’ve dealt with judgment for years — and still do. But the truth is, they were and are great parents. My brothers made choices — choices that didn’t just affect them but affected all of us too.