>> |
12/20/11(Tue)03:33 No.32508079>>32507931 My brother was in and out of drug rehab three times, the psych ward twice, bounced from college to college, off and on of anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, and all the while supported and loved and cared for by everyone, only to enter yet another manic phase and screw it all up again in a wave of drugs and alcohol. Where was I in all this? Supportive role as a brother and as a friend and some constant source of motivation for him to 'be a better brother' or something else he'd wind up forgetting in his benders.
The day that fat shit killed himself, I cheered. No more phone calls at 2 am, no more strains on my parents' marriage, no more choke marks on my mother's neck, no more frantic searches for him when he'd hijack a car and go veering off to Maryland on one of his paranoid flights of fancy.
Seven years of hell finally ended by some shotgun mouthwash make me a hypocrite? No. It made me realize just how little you can do to help and addict, and how much time and effort got wasted on someone that caused my family and I nothing but grief for a solid half of his life. |