How To Deal With An Alcoholic Brother – He did not choose to live next to the family that loved him, separated from the world, surrounded by chaos. He had no other choice.
I was visiting friends when I got a call to go to the hospital. I’ve been waiting for him for the past few years. I ran to the room where my brother was lying on a bed on the ventilator.
How To Deal With An Alcoholic Brother
“No, Steve’s still with us,” someone told me. I checked the bed, the monitors, assessing his pulse and blood pressure. Things I know. Then I looked at my brother and I knew that the doctor was wrong. The reality was different.
My Twin Brother And I Spiralled Into Alcoholism After Our Mum Died
In fact, my older brother, my 17-year-old older brother, has not been with us for many years. We refrained from giving his name when we lost him a little due to an illness. We didn’t know what to call it. Sometimes we think we know, other times we feel blind. We avoided labels, organized dinners without wine when it seemed sensible, with wine when things looked good.
We were just grooving in the dark. Because what we came to accept in those final years and as we stood at his bedside became ever clearer that the last and final reason for admission was that he had a name. Steve was an alcoholic.
But it was not always like this. Alcoholism takes its time, it comes and goes for years. There was a time many years ago when my brother pushed me into my head, playing at being my father. He took me fishing, teased me and made me hate him by locking me in a room with Michael Jackson’s Thriller playing on repeat. Years later, he called me when the cats gave birth, and looked after me when it was school holidays and my parents were at work.
When I was older, he would invite me over for dinner and we would eat lasagna off big colorful plates and he would talk to me about woodworking and his huge movie collection. Now, I wonder if it was my childhood naïveté that cast our earliest shared memories in a happy light. Perhaps my brother suggested deep loneliness on his part, and it was a happy night for me. The fact that something is missing, a hole must be filled. Although I didn’t know it, it was a sign of things to come.
I’m Worried Booze Will See Off My Alcoholic Brother
We had to break down my brother’s door before we could see what the problem was. On that occasion he appeared unresponsive, and was admitted to the hospital for detoxification and relapse, and was discharged in a few days unharmed and unchanged. One of my brothers fixed the door. Steve was fine, okay?
But the scene put an entirely different spin on what happened, and quietly, between us, the first mutterings of alcoholism passed our lips. I began to understand what everyone else knew. So a new routine became our norm: an occasional period of silence, mixed with anxiety, always filled with thick denial.
The problem is not my brother’s drinking, even during childbirth. It was a fact that drinking was generally common. Acceptable. Having a drink at a family dinner or finding a two-liter bottle in the fridge would be completely reasonable if it were someone else.
Well-intentioned guests could not see the harm. But they did not see that the CD is the only thing in the refrigerator, and the food that should be there is still in the delivery bags, rotting on the kitchen floor. They should not have come down from the roof of the garage in confusion and confusion. They spent half an hour every day at the door for the two weeks of Christmas, not calling his name through the letterbox, but hearing him walk in and denying their desire to spend time together, knowing they had wasted it. Wasting. At that time, the time of breaking down the doors has long passed.
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As we moved toward the final years of my brother’s life, frustrated by his continued passing despite our best efforts to maintain a sense of normalcy, desperate measures like dismembered doors seemed like too much frustration. Alcoholism had taken us all in some way, so it lowered our expectations as much as possible. Still, I wake up at 1 a.m. to get a call that something isn’t right in a crisis.
We all took our turn and when it came to those nocturnal massacres, we stood in the room in the chaos, tears falling before our elder brother, feeling hopeless even though he agreed to do anything we asked. He would go to rehab and call them tomorrow. He gets a therapist, different. He was going to the GP, and this time he was taking the tablets. Those nights often result in occasional attempts to make things right. Pens and bowls shine on the laser with incredible precision; We receive a party for dinner and find the house clean. When to start the treatment. Despite the setbacks, these moments provided me with politely dimmed memories of the bright, promising and failed kind brother we all miss so much.
Most of the time, my brother used to annoy me because of my alcoholism. I thought my simple life was so simple that I could mix cranberry juice with vodka and it didn’t mean another failure. Just pour it, don’t buy it, go to work and come home.
I live around the corner. But it was only when he died that I understood his dilemma; He had no choice in his lifestyle. And it was only after that realization that I realized that alcoholism was not a lifestyle he had adopted as an easy way out of frustration. It was only after he died that I realized that no one would choose to live like my brother, beside the family that loved him, cut off from the world, surrounded by chaos.
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It was never better to live the way he did than to live the way he loved, which is why, despite all the hope, he never lost faith that one day it would be better. He didn’t stop making plans to quit drinking. He had always hoped that a better, happier life awaited him on the other side of civility.
That sense of injustice stayed with me long after we lost him; Not because we lost him, but because of the disappointment he felt when he was alive, how his treatment failed and how, in frustration, he didn’t achieve the simple dream of loving and being loved in return. By someone other than the family.
Every time I hear of someone with an addiction, I think of my brother. Every time I hear that someone has battled demons, I feel as proud as they are. In Limassol, Cyprus, where I now live, I remember a time when I saw them fishing off the top of a pole, untied my lines, and another lost surfer told me it was okay. When I look at the plate he made that I took from his house after we lost him, I see his face, and every time I think of him, I realize that I was as wrong about him in death as I was in life. For years I thought he was no longer with us, but he was filled with hope that another chance was waiting for him, a different life that we could have.
So while I thought maybe he was lost in the hospital that day, he wasn’t. Maybe he was still with us. Because there was no hope of saving him that day, he didn’t hope that we could. This is how I choose to remember him. Dear June: ‘What can I do about my drunken brother who is angry and difficult to deal with?’
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What should I do about my brother, he is a drunkard, angry and difficult to deal with? He does not live in the same situation as myself, so he is easily ignored.
Whether or not you ignore your brother, it may be helpful to consider whether you have a responsibility or obligation to help him first.
First of all, it is important to answer these questions, because it will be easy to ignore him and you will have great difficulty in helping him. Helping a loved one recover from addiction is painful and takes grit and determination to see the problem. Reminding yourself why you took on this burden will help you bear it.
If you choose to help him, I will