Illustration by Victoria Borges
For years I bought booze for my younger brother, Lucas, on Christmas. Sometimes it was my only gift, sometimes there were a few different things, but it was always there. Four-packs of heady, hopped IPAs from The Veil Brewing Co.; a beer tour excursion; or a personalized bottle of liquor wrapped and adorned with a bow — it always felt easy.
Looking back, I’m not sure why. I can think of countless occasions where my brother’s drinking worried me. The knot in my throat when I saw him stumbling but didn’t know what to say. The sadness that radiated through my entire being when I looked into his eyes and saw black pools staring back. The silent fear that I refused to acknowledge that it might always be this way.
My brother is the type of person who always wants to do more, who wants to experience whatever he is doing to the fullest, to the extreme — and that included drinking. He would wake up and pop a Miller Lite, never said no to a nightcap and was ready to pour one up at any opportunity.
Lucas started drinking young.
The first time we drank together was during a family beach vacation one summer. It was a shot of Jack Daniels, and he was younger than I’d like to admit. When I turned 21, I bought beer for my brother if he asked; before I hit the legal drinking age, my boyfriend at the time was happy to assist. A few years later, Lucas got a fake ID and bought it on his own.
The night before my brother turned 21, a small group of us went to Patrick Henry’s Pub at midnight to celebrate. We all laughed, joking about it being his first drink. The next morning, we left for a music festival, where he consumed all the substances in sight. His girlfriend helped him walk back to the campground, her tiny stature somehow supporting him. Once we got there, he quickly passed out. She and I exchanged looks that spoke louder than our words ever could. And when we lay down that night, I put my face close to his to make sure he was still breathing, scared to shut my own eyes for fear that he wouldn’t open his.
The first Christmas after his best friend, Tommy, died, was painful. To Lucas, the loss felt so immense — an overwhelming recognition that someone he thought would be there forever was gone. After we opened presents, and after we started imbibing, he cried in the backyard to our uncle and me. He told me that Tommy had taught him how to be a man. It broke my heart. I had never felt so scared. What would fill that void?
Four years ago on his birthday, I went to Hampton to spend time with Lucas and friends. We went out to hibachi and to a pal’s house after. He had been throwing back beers and shots since he woke up and had a flaming drink at dinner. That night, I watched my baby brother, a 6-foot-2 grown man, sway back and forth and fall to the ground, unable to stand on his own. It is one of the most gut-wrenching moments in my memory.
Even though Lucas and I are five years apart, I’ve always felt safe in his presence, protected. I wish I had done the same for him. For far too long I told myself, “Don’t push him away.” That thought was crippling; it held me back from saying words I should’ve spoken much sooner. I believed that if I was just physically there, if I could have my eyes on him, that everything would be OK. That he was safe. It took me nearly a decade to realize how incredibly wrong I was.
My mom tried to address his drinking with me many times, but I refused to truly see it. It was easier not to. I would say things like, “He’s just having fun,” or “I used to drink like that, too.” I didn’t have the words to say or the strength to speak them. I didn’t think he’d hear me — or feared that he would. I worried about the consequences of talking to him, about his unyielding stubbornness. It was a subject I didn’t want to touch or talk about. It was a wound that needed stitches, not a Band-Aid.
Last Christmas was the first that I didn’t buy alcohol for my brother, and I’m happy to say, this year will be the second. In August, we went to our first music festival together where partying wasn’t on the itinerary; we popped cans of cold brew coffee in the morning and a soda during set breaks. For his birthday, we spent time at the beach and ate surf and turf. In October, he marked a year of not drinking.
I feel at peace, and proud, and penitent that Lucas figured it out on his own. I’m not sure if there was a specific instance that drove him to the decision, but his partner of a decade points to control — he was no longer reaching for a beer after work or taking shots before a show because he wanted to, but because he had to. The realization helped him decide to stop.
The give-it-your-all attitude Lucas once had toward drinking is now channeled into mountain biking and snowboarding. He wakes up at 6 a.m. to hit the trails before they get crowded, will be on the slopes all season and is perfectly content playing Nintendo on the couch with his partner on a Friday night. This Christmas, I’ll wrap up a gift that isn’t shaped like a bottle. We’ll have a big pot of coffee in the morning and probably be in bed by 10 p.m. — no nightcaps.
