My brother’s struggle began last spring. But that’s not my story to tell.
My story is just an aftershock.
When I first found out about my brother’s problems, I ran to the edge, didn’t look back, and dove in. I knew, together, we would beat this.
It didn’t take long for it to be clear that no matter how many support groups, helping hands, and long tirades and tears I threw together, nothing would happen until he decided he wanted those things too. It was obvious, but I was blind. Even with his own troubles getting worse, and my constant failures to get him help continued to pile up, I could not take no for an answer. I had an empathetic ear, an open heart, a broken spirit; there must have been something I could have done.
Seasons passed and too many tears were shed. Too many late night calls were…
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