The picture above is of my brother Ricky in high school. A few years ago I got an email, and this picture, from a man named Bruce who played baseball with him when they were kids. In his words, I thought the world of your brother. I admired his confidence on the ball field, his talent. I admired his relaxed demeanor in the face of so much competitive pressure. He was a helluva ball player. Bruce reached out to me after reading my book, Big Love, and finding out Ricky had been addicted to heroin most of his adult life until he died of an overdose when he was forty.

Twenty-eight years ago today, on September 14, 1994, I came home to my apartment in San Francisco to two messages from my sister Rose. Without revealing any details, she told me to call her right away. Her voice sounded shaky, sad. I knew Ricky was dead. I had known for years I’d be receiving a call someday with news of my brother’s death. I believe all my siblings expected the same call; it was only a matter of time. Rose told me that Ricky had died early that morning from an overdose. His body had been discovered in a bathroom stall in a McDonald’s somewhere in Detroit.

Bruce reached out to me because he wanted me to get a sense of the Ricky he knew when they were kids, to make sure I didn't view my brother solely as an addict. Bruce wrote, I played a lot of baseball with Ricky back in the summers of 1967 and 1968.  When we were fourteen, we played together on the Pony League All-Star team that went to the World Series and then the Colt All-Stars in '68.  He played second base; I played third.  Even though we played on different, competing teams during most of the summer, we became fast friends on these All Star teams. We had some great times, both hanging out at my house and traveling through the country playing baseball.
For my entire life, while Ricky was still alive, I did indeed have a hard time seeing him as anything but an addict. He was eighteen years older than I, and as far as anyone knew, his addiction began before I was born or when I was still an infant. I never knew him as anything but a junkie. That was the title I gave him, even before brother. His addiction was the lens through which I viewed him. Always high, or wanting to get high, or struggling desperately to keep from getting high. A character. An actor. Pieces of a real person, I thought, but never an honest whole. Never in control. I pitied him, and I resented him. I prayed for him, and I spited him. I loved him, and I hated him — for the brother he was, and the one he refused to be. I couldn't see his humanity in his addiction and all the pain it caused our family. It really wasn't until after he died that I began to focus on what a beautiful human he was, as gentle and loving as anyone I've known. All heart.
It's so easy to judge those who are lost in addiction. So easy to lose touch with their humanity, when it's often the depth of their humanity, and sensitivity, that sparks their addiction in the first place. Is there an addict alive who isn't also a canary in the coal mine, screaming in their own way that something is wrong here? Whether or not we believe those with addiction have an incurable disease or are consciously making unhealthy choices shouldn’t matter in the way we talk about and treat them. Stigmatizing people who struggle with addiction certainly won’t help them heal. I spent too many years looking down on my brother because of his drug problem, seeing him as broken and less than. As only a junkie. He, like all who battle addiction, was no less deserving of kindness and compassion, whatever the reason for his addiction and his inability to break free of it. There is no greater than or less than where people are concerned. We’re all equal, all worthy of the same love. And aren’t we all addicts to some degree? Don’t we all make unhealthy choices, more often than we’d like, with the sole purpose of escaping discomfort and pain?

I’ve numbed myself with alcohol and drugs and sugar and sex and television and social media, all of them in excess, for periods in my life. I’ve never felt completely out of control in my habits (save social media), but I’ve certainly tasted addiction. I wasted many days chasing after empty sex online, knowing it wouldn’t fulfill me but being unwilling to stop seeking it. I’ve downed countless pints of ice cream, as well as every dessert in existence, in failed attempts to ease my sadness. I smoked pot so regularly that I felt uneasy going to sleep without it. Addiction tempts us all. How many of us spend hours upon hours glazed over as we check our social media accounts or binge-watch TV at unhealthy levels, just to keep from having to face our real lives?
In his email, Bruce wrote, The part I loved best in your chapter on Ricky was how you defined his character through his smile. To know the kind of person Ricky was, inside, was to see that radiant smile. So much warmth. Thank you for writing that. That's exactly how I choose to remember him.

That's how I choose to remember him, too. Not to deny the other parts of him, but to give energy to his beauty, his heart, his love, knowing that by doing so I'm giving a gift to myself as well. Bringing expansiveness to his light, rather than his pain.
A person’s humanity is always there on some level. Always. If I can't find it, I know it's time to search a little harder for my own.
Look at that brother of mine in his baseball uniform. Can't you feel his huge heart? I sure can. I labeled Ricky a junkie while he was alive, and he was so much more. He was as kindhearted a man as I’ve ever known, with a giant smile he offered willingly to everyone who crossed his path. When I picture him now, it’s almost always with that smile stamped on his face, his loving blue eyes open for connection. He was funny and charming and felt comfortable talking to anyone, about anything. An instant friend. He was gentle, so gentle, ultimately too gentle for this reality. He loved our family with his whole heart but was never able to find a true home in our world. I wish I'd had the clarity to let him know his addiction didn't make him any less beautiful, or less worthy, or less loved. No. It didn't make him any less my brother.

Wishing you all peace, and so much love,

Scott

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