Loving an addict is hell.

Loving your brother while he slowly kills himself is something I don’t even have words for.

He has everything now. Money. A beautiful house. Security. The kind of life we never had.

And he still puts it in his veins.

We almost lost him again last night. Again.

People forget we didn’t grow up safe. Our father was abusive — mostly toward me, because I did everything I could to stand in front of my brother and take it. I made myself the shield. I learned how to absorb the damage so he wouldn’t have to.

And our mother was never a mother. There was no comfort. No protection. Just survival.

So I get it. I really do. Trauma doesn’t just disappear because you grow up and get rich. It lives in your bones. It rewires you. I have my own addiction. I understand wanting the pain to shut up for five minutes.

But this is different.

I don’t think “if” anymore.
I think “when.”

When will it be the one he doesn’t come back from?
When will the call finally be the call?

I’m angry. I’m exhausted. I’m heartbroken.

Angry that after everything we survived, this is what might take him. Angry that I couldn’t protect him then and I can’t protect him now.

Underneath all of it, I’m still that little girl trying to stand in front of him.

And I am so tired of waiting for the next almost.