My older brother and I never really shared a lot of things. But what few things we did share kept us unavoidably tied to one another. We shared the same father, the same last name, even the same birthday despite him being 14 years older than me. The unlikelihood of our birthdays was always a talking point growing up. And no matter how far apart we were in life throughout the year, that one day would always arrive where we were reminded of one another.
When I was a child, I remember how cool he was. He was the life of the party. The energy reactor in the room. He had an unbeatable smile, a charming charisma, and a deliciously swift wit. I dreamt of having hair like his someday. Whenever anyone referred to him, even the way they’d say his name sounded like a lyric from your favorite song. Marc.
At my 4th Birthday party, he arrived late. As everyone welcomed him and wished him Happy Birthday, I somehow sensed that something was off. He finally turned to me and called me over to him; everyone watching our interaction. He knelt to my level, and as I went in for a hug, he stopped me just in front of him. He smiled that disarming smile and said, “Happy Birthday,” then he yanked my pants and underwear straight to the ground. His laughter roared into my face, and everyone else’s against my back as I struggled to pull them back up while he hugged me. Betrayal had been injected into my veins, and that was the first time I’d ever felt embarrassment in my body. At that time, I couldn’t reconcile or comprehend the “off-ness” I’d felt prior to that experience. It could never have occurred to me that a part of him might resent his 4-year-old brother, and that the driving force underneath all that joy he brought to a room, was pain.
It would be a long time before I’d learn that my brother was an addict. It was not openly discussed around me. As the years would go by, the tension that surrounded him became normal to me. Him and Dad were always getting into it. I guess I just thought he was argumentative and stubborn, but it was no longer surprising how quickly a holiday or family gathering could sour not long after he’d arrive.
That musicality to his name had somehow changed to lament. It was when he showed up to a family dinner completely strung out that the cat was finally out of the bag.
It made me angry. I hated what he was doing to our family. I hated how much he resented me for being born on “his” day. I hated his excuses. I hated the manipulation of everyone’s empathy. I couldn’t understand how someone so intelligent, so aware, would so willingly harm everyone around them. I judged him, and I know that he felt that. We didn’t speak much for over a decade-- Checking in obligatorily every year on our day just so when Dad asked if we’d spoken, we could say, “yes, dad.”
It was a year ago; late in the evening. I remember I was walking to my car after work when my brother’s name came up on the caller ID. Marc. Not something I’d seen in years. When I answered, my brother told me (in quite casual fashion) that he’d intended to kill himself. He was tired of fighting the demons that had been haunting him for years, and that it was time to go. His casualness didn’t disturb me. I could tell he was sober. That looming darkness wasn’t around. He was being honest. Of course, I asked him if he was sure that this was the only way. Was life truly not enough? Was his son truly not enough? Wouldn’t going back to rehab be better than this, or getting help? I’d quickly realize somewhere in those first few minutes that I felt the peace in his certainty as clearly as I’d felt his pain all those years ago. Who was I to try to take that from him?
We shifted from the topic. I sat there on some curb in Santa Monica, and we talked for hours. We bounced around about life, the past, our broken dreams, girls. We were just two men, talking with one another for the first time in our lives. We were meeting each other right where the other one was at. No agenda, no judgement. No pain. I laughed when he said, “I betcha didn’t know that about me.” And he was right. I didn’t.
Eventually, I noticed that whatever he’d taken had started to take effect. He grew agitated and more impatient. Completing less and less thoughts. He told me he had to go. The same way you’d say it if you needed to grab eggs from a corner store and the pan was already hot. I thanked him for calling me. I told him that I loved him… just the way he is. That I wouldn’t change a thing about him. And I told him that I’d love to have another chat sometime. He said, “Will do, little brother. Will do.” On December 17th, 2023, my father’s name came up on my caller ID.
Our conversation that night will feel vivid and alive in my memory for the rest of my life. It showed me more than I could ever put into words. I cherish that our best conversation was our only conversation, and also our last. And that despite that it took all that time, we finally found a way to share something.
I’ve followed the @humansofny platform on social media for many years. When my brother passed, an entry that I’d read a few years ago came rushing back to me. As I reread this anonymous person’s story, I felt the connection between their words on the page and my brother’s experience. The video above is an exploration honoring the original individual entry as well as my brother, and all of those who experience addiction, and the loved ones who support them. I’d always wondered what my own HumansofNY entry would be like-- What would I talk about? What would I get off my chest? For me, this is the best way.
This is How He Remembers Me.