A letter to...

This letter was published in The Guardian last Saturday, brutally honest, it struck a chord with me -

My brother, my dirty secret

This letter comes too late. I always meant to write to you, to let you know I am not ashamed of you. But I left it and left it. No time, busy life ... I knew you struggled not only with your addiction, but also with the demons in your mind, the anxiety and panic that have seized you since you were a little boy.

You were born with an illness, I think - a depressive, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and I am sorry for you. Perhaps I shouldn't blame you for trying to blank it out with substances. Nobody really knows the pain you've had all your life.

But I was angry at the way you treated Mum. You broke her. She saw things no mother should see. Because of your dependence on her, and the way you were always an infant to her, you involved her in a lifestyle to which she shouldn't have been exposed. She told me about a time she had to step over you as she cleaned her kitchen, you lying on the floor with your head in the dog's basket, unconscious but breathing. The depths of depravity. And then she looked at you again, you had stopped breathing, and you made her feel guilty about ignoring you. But she was so used to seeing you in that state, she was leaving you to come round. I was angry that she had to resuscitate you, more than once, and then call the ambulance not knowing if you were dead or alive.

Mum and Dad were permanently strung out, jumping and looking at each other in fear every time the phone rang, thinking you had been found dead, that this one was going to be the call they dreaded. I was furious that you brought drugs into all our lives, and that they have changed our family. It incensed me that just before you went into rehab, and on the doctor's advice, Mum had to give you £100 a day to keep you in heroin. If you had sufficient heroin in your system, you would not crave drink, they said. And it was drink that made you wild, self-destructive. It was when you were drinking that you were most at risk. I think back to when you regularly self-harmed, and when Mum and Dad used to come home and find blood around the house and all up the stairs. And when you told them you had sat up all night with a shotgun in your mouth, wondering whether to pull the trigger ... I was angry you did all this to them, that you involved them to such an extent in your troubles, and that Mum's health has suffered.

I have been reading some of the notes you made in rehab. One of your big fears was that I was ashamed of you, that you couldn't hold your head up around me, and that you felt ashamed of yourself because of your addiction. I wasn't ashamed of you. But it's hard to love a heroin addict. The seediness - needles, veins, ligatures - it makes me feel sick. And you know I had to protect my children. I couldn't bring them anywhere near you. The unpredictability of your behaviour was not something I wanted them to witness, and I didn't want to have to explain anything. They are young, and childhood innocence is too precious. I didn't want you or your addiction to touch their lives. You were my dirty secret.

We got you back at Christmas. After eight months in rehab, you came back, clean, with your beautiful smile and a lovely new girlfriend. It was so good to see you. My talented, charming, funny, handsome brother was back. I gave you a kiss for the first time in ages - because you were my brother and I was so proud of you. I didn't think you could change your life. I didn't even expect you to complete the treatment.

It's so sad that your, and our, happiness was short-lived. Despite being free of drugs, the stuff in your head wouldn't leave you. "The bastards in my head are still there, and I'm scared I won't feel any different when I come out," you wrote to me during your rehab. You made a valiant effort, my dear brother. We were all elated at your recovery, and nervously held high hopes for the future. But you couldn't really cope in the real world, could you? And you were too scared to tell anyone.

This letter comes too late. Because you were found dead in your car with a needle in your arm. God bless you, sweet James, and may you rest in peace. Your exhausting struggle is over. I am not ashamed of you. I am proud you were my brother.

Love, LH