Lessons on Addiction, Shame, and Love Derived from the Passing of My Brother

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“Reject any labels that convert individuals into objects. Language carries weight. If you wish to nurture something, you refer to it as a ‘flower’; if you seek to destroy it, you label it a ‘weed.’” ~Don Coyhis

Witnessing my brother’s struggle with a substance use disorder imparted lessons I never wanted to learn. Lessons that no one prepares you for. Lessons that will transform you in unimaginable ways.

It taught me that you may love someone so intensely that it physically pains you—and still be powerless to save them. It showed me that you can start mourning someone you cherish long before they are physically absent, and no one warns you of the helplessness that accompanies it. How degrading. How you begin to silently bargain with the universe: Take anything you wish from me. Just grant him a little more time.

But the universe turned a deaf ear to my pleas. Addiction didn’t negotiate with him. It merely took. It claimed his soul, his mind, his spirit, and extinguished the light in his eyes.

Before his passing, I continuously tried to cling to the version of him I knew growing up—the true him. The one who made me laugh until I gasped for breath. The one who supported everyone else, even when he struggled to support himself. The side of him that remained unseen by others. I clung to those recollections like lifelines, for the reality of addiction felt akin to watching him drown in slow motion.

And here lies the truth most people will never grasp unless they have experienced it: you begin to grieve long before they pass away.

Each relapse feels like a memorial service. Every “I’ll call you back” morphs into a silent plea. Every moment of silence turns into a question you’re too frightened to ask: Are they alive? Are they gone? Are they alone? Each question drives you to call hospitals, jails—anyone who might know where they are and can help you find them… alive.

Then the day arrives when the phone rings for real, and your entire body senses it even before your mind does. You answer anyway. You listen. You shatter. And a fragment of you that you’ll never reclaim crumbles with him.

After he passed, the world anticipated me to be “strong,” to utter phrases like “He’s finally at rest” or “He’s in a better place.” I wanted to scream. I yearned to flee. I wished to be anywhere but here, without him. I had no desire for him to be in a “better place.” I wanted him here. Chaotic, flawed, striving—but alive. Alive and able to witness his daughter grow up, to see his niece and nephew become who they are today, and to be the person I always believed he could become, sober.

What his passing imparted to me is far from soft. It isn’t poetic. It is harsh and agonizing. It robs you of a part of yourself that you never envisioned losing. It makes you feel as though you can’t breathe. You can’t sleep or eat, and you feel guilty for finding moments of joy throughout your day.

I discovered that people often pass judgment on addiction until it touches their family. Then it suddenly becomes “complicated.” Personal. Human. Before that, they toss around terms like “junkie,” “choice,” and “his fault.” They remain oblivious to the fact that addiction belongs in the same category as a terminal illness—cruel, consuming, frightening, and unjust.

I learned that grief is fierce. It shatters your sense of reality. You believe you’ll cry and navigate through it, but grief has claws. It pulls you back into memories you weren’t prepared to revisit, dreams that feel too real, and guilt you never deserved but carry nonetheless. I realized that it can strike at any moment, at any time, and hit you like a high-speed train. It becomes all-encompassing. You feel it deep within your spirit, and you often feel as though you will never awaken from this nightmare.

I learned I can harbor anger while loving him simultaneously. I’m angry he didn’t receive just one more day. Angry that the world didn’t get to know him. Angry at everyone who judged him. Angry that he left me here alone, something he swore he would never do. Angry at addiction for having the final word. But my love for him has never diminished and never will. Not for a single second.

And here’s the hardest lesson that losing him imparted:

You cease expecting closure. You stop anticipating the pain to recede. Instead, you learn to coexist with it—like a bruise that never quite heals. You learn to smile through the anguish. You learn to allow grief to envelop you when it arrives, and to always honor his name and his truth.

But there were lessons as well—the kind you can only grasp after being shattered:

I learned to speak the truth. Not the polished version of his narrative. Not the rendition that comforts others. I recount the version where addiction was integral to his life. Not because it defines him, but because concealing it diminishes him.

I learned to recognize suffering in others—the quiet type that lurks behind smiles and “I’m fine.” Losing him made me more compassionate toward strangers, more patient, more protective. It made me aware that everyone carries something they’re terrified to voice.

And strangely, painfully, I discovered that love does not perish with the individual. It settles into your very being. It becomes something you carry for the entirety of your life—the ache, the anger, the gratitude, the memories, all intertwined.

Losing my brother taught me that the world can shatter you… and you can still persist. Not because you’re resilient, but because you have no other option.

I wish I didn’t possess these lessons. I wish he were still here. But since he isn’t, all I can do is carry him truthfully—not the sanitized version preferred by others, but the authentic one.

The brother I lost. The brother I cherished. The brother that addiction couldn’t erase. The brother who will never be forgotten.

In loving memory of Joshua O’Neill Gray (August 6, 1982 – August 29, 2019).

**Insights on Addiction, Shame, and Love from the Loss of My Brother**

The death of a loved one is a profound event that alters our perception of life, relationships, and ourselves. When that individual grapples with addiction, the path through grief can be especially intricate, loaded with layers of emotion intertwining shame, love, and the stark realities of addiction. My brother’s fight against addiction and his eventual demise imparted invaluable lessons that continue to resonate in my life.

**Grasping Addiction**

Addiction is frequently misconstrued. It isn’t merely a choice or an absence of willpower; it is a chronic illness that impacts the brain’s structure and function. My brother was not defined solely by his addiction, but it was a substantial aspect of his life. Observing his struggles unveiled the intricacies of addiction, demonstrating how it can ensnare even the most loving and gifted people. It taught me that addiction is a multifaceted challenge that necessitates compassion and understanding instead of judgment.

**The Burden of Shame**

Shame is a potent emotion that often accompanies addiction, for both the individual and their loved ones. My brother frequently felt ashamed of his struggles, which only intensified his isolation and hindered his ability to seek assistance. As his family, we too contended with shame—shame for not being able to “fix” him, for feeling powerless, and for the stigma surrounding addiction. This experience taught me that shame flourishes in silence. Open discussions about addiction can help tear down the stigma and create an atmosphere of support and understanding.

**The Influence of Love**

Amid the difficulties, love remained a steadfast force in our relationship. It was love that compelled me to stand by my brother, to advocate for him, and to support him through his darkest days. However, I learned that love doesn’t always translate into enabling. There were occasions when tough love was necessary, when establishing boundaries became a loving act rather than abandonment. This duality of love—nurturing yet firm—was a critical insight. It taught me that love can manifest in various ways and that sometimes, the most challenging choices arise from a place of profound affection.

**Grief and Acceptance**

The sorrow that followed my brother’s passing was profound and intricate. I experienced anger, sadness, and even relief at times, as I navigated the complexities of his addiction. Acceptance was not easily attained; it was a path requiring me to confront my feelings of guilt and helplessness. I discovered that grieving is not a straightforward process and that it’s crucial to allow oneself to experience the entire range of emotions. Over time, I found comfort in the memories of my brother, celebrating his life instead of solely mourning his death.

**Establishing a Legacy of Awareness**

In the aftermath of my brother’s death, I felt a profound obligation to honor his memory by raising awareness about addiction. Sharing our story became a means to connect with others who have faced similar challenges. It is essential to promote open dialogues about addiction, to educate ourselves and those around us, and to advocate for those affected. By transforming our pain into purpose, we can contribute to a greater understanding of addiction and its effects on families.

**Conclusion**

The lessons gleaned from my brother’s loss are etched into my soul. Addiction is a complex ailment that demands compassion, empathy, and open communication. Shame can hinder healing, but love—both nurturing and strict—can clear the way for recovery and acceptance. Grief is a journey that necessitates patience and self-compassion, and through it all, we can forge a legacy that honors those we have lost. By sharing these lessons, I aim to motivate others to approach addiction with empathy and to acknowledge the profound impact of love amidst adversity.