A reader recalls a frightening memory:
My brother is four years older than I am. When I was 13 and he was 17, he dove head-first into drug and alcohol abuse. It all began simply enough, as apparently these things do. Most kids grow out of it. But what began as hidden packs of Marlboro Reds and vehement, nearly hysterical pleas that his eyes were only red because his contacts were dry, eventually turned into missing valuables, violent eruptions at the slightest provocation, court dates, lawyer’s fees, rehab, nights in jail, my mother driving around the streets with street dealers hoping desperately to find any sign of life.
But there was one pivotal night where I finally understood that this wasn’t just a phase my brother was going through.