Today I told my brother he inspired me to write a book. I hadn’t heard from him in over a month and wasn’t sure if he was still alive. His tears let me know he was still very much here.
It’s hard to explain what it’s like to be the only consistent person in a homeless family member’s life.
So much about our relationship is difficult, but today I told him that his well-being mattered to me, that I had an invested interest in his health and happiness. I’ve said it a thousand different times in a thousand different ways, but today was when it connected.
He was speechless. His tears muffled his voice as they dripped into the speaker of a borrowed phone.
It was a small statement, really. But it’s powerful when we’re told that someone wants us to succeed, that someone cares whether we’re here or gone.
There’s only so much I can do to improve his day-to-day existence, but I know how to take care of his heart.
He slipped in our conversation today and called me mom. Our mom has been gone for over a decade, and our dad for three years. In truth, he didn’t want his mom, though he still misses her.
He just wanted to matter to someone.
Everyone is somebody’s child, and we can be the person that makes them feel like they matter, regardless of our biological or familial connection.
My brother suffers a lot. Survival is far from romantic. Fear and anxiety, emotional and physical abuse, these are his constant companions.
It’s the reality of getting robbed as you’re discharged from the hospital where you couldn’t afford the care you needed and struggling to find a safe place to pee before seeking shelter under a bridge for the night.
It’s a life that makes every facet of the human experience – significant or seemingly insignificant – rigid, cold, and lonely.
He thought I was joking when I said he inspired me. But it’s true. Survival isn’t easy, and I don’t wish that way of life upon anyone. But for those in a similar position as my brother or who have felt they must endure, I commend you for not giving up.
The last thing I said to my brother was that I loved him and cared whether he lived or died. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t have to. As a writer, even I must acknowledge that some things transcend words.
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