Friday, July 31, 2009


What is this body I find slumped on my Mother's couch every morning? Its gray, crepe paper face is tinged with yellow and a dead give away--a liver that can't keep up with all the poison entering this body. It is the shell. The physical body that once housed my brother Steven. This shell that steals our valuables makes us feel afraid, turning us into locked doors and mistrust.

I look in his eyes and only see the emptiness he has carved out feeding his addiction. Those eyes are gray like his face and hungry with need.

Where are you Steven? Are you inside there somewhere, drowning in your pool of shame? The pool we have emptied buckets of liquid anger and disappointment into? Now, we cannot fashion the rope to rescue you, your family who loves you with this sharp sorrow.

The steps out of this pool are there on the side. Don't you remember how to see them? We point to them with our desperate sadness. We hope you reach the first one and keep on climbing. Save yourself because we are the onlookers and cannot do it for you. Our hands our tied with the chords of your agency.

But our hearts.

Our hearts love you. They miss you. Our hearts wait for you and our hearts do not give up hope.


  1. Beautifully heart breaking. I know this is hard to watch and not be able to do anything about. Hope & love can not be given up though.

  2. oh, rachel. I wish so badly that there was something I could do. I don't even know him, and I'm crying for him and your family. Thank heavens he has a family like yours who is not giving up on him. I will pray for him along with you.

  3. Those are my same thoughts put much more beautifully. Somehow hearing/reading them helps the healing, even with these tears running down my face.