Motion Masquerade

I crashed out early last night (like, before nine o’clock early) and when I woke up this morning I discovered that I’d received a text from my baby brother at 10:41 PM: “I love you Cassie. You’re my favorite sister.” When I read it (at 8:25 this morning) my stomach tightened into a knot and waves of nausea washed over me.

For most folks this might seem like a sweet text from a sibling; but, from Chase it’s an abnormal statement at best, and a warning of danger at worst. It’s also a horrible reminder of the last text my younger brother, Cole, sent to my mother before he drove up a mountain and shot himself in the head six years ago — six years ago this very month.

Chase is a brilliant (I’m not kidding, he’s literally a genius), but solitary, man. He’s also a somewhat “functioning” alcoholic who only texts me late at night — usually in the middle of a bender — and never to say he loves me nor that I’m his favorite sister. It’s usually to rant about the things in the world that he despises or to remind me of all the things I’ve previously done that have disappointed him or to send me a list of what I need to do in order to not let him down.

To be clear, my baby brother is paying my way through school; and, although I’ve managed to maintain a 4.0 GPA for the last three years, gotten an Honors Fellowship as a Creative Non-Fiction Writer, and gained acceptance into the Honors College at my university, he still sends regular reminders about staying on top of my game and keeping my eye on the ball. We also have tremendous arguments about my progress every time my tuition comes due.

Don’t get me wrong: I am incredibly grateful for all he’s done — and continues to do — for me. He is one of the most charming and generous people you could ever hope to meet… when he’s sober; but, when he drinks (and Chase drinks often) he can turn into a proper contentious pain in the ass with a terrible talent for cruelty. Not just toward others either — he also turns that rage on himself and tends to self-destruct.

A little over a week ago he told me he’d received a stern talking to from his supervisors for having missed over twenty days of work — without calling (i.e. no call, no shows) — in the past six months. He didn’t come out and say it was due to his drinking; but, it’s relatively safe to assume (based on his history) that one can attribute it to his alcoholism. He manages to stay employed — as he has in the past — because he is so goddam brilliant in his field.

Chase has been to employee-sponsored and personally-financed rehab — more than once — but it’s never stuck for very long. He has a low tolerance for “stupid” people; and, unfortunately, 99.9% of the world is less intelligent than he is. I’ve offered to take him to AA meetings but he says he has no interest in joining a “cult for losers.”

He always ends up drinking again in order to be social. To put an end to his isolation and loneliness. Of course, he’s only social until he reaches the tipping point; and then, he’s misanthropic and antisocial as all hell. It’s a viscous cycle that he hasn’t yet found a way out of and I am terrified of losing him — whether it’s a slow demise via cirrhosis, an accident when he’s driving hammered, or a self-inflicted death like Cole’s.

A text like the one I received last night leaves me grimly worried that he’s saying goodbye… just like our younger brother did the morning of his suicide.

At 8:25 AM, with shaking hands — and trying to stay positive — I texted back: “I love you, Chase. You’re one of my top three people on the planet. I just fall asleep before nine sometimes. 😂 Last night I was out by like 8:45. How sad is that?”

And now there’s nothing to do but wait. If I could run to him and embrace him tightly in my arms, I would; but, I can’t. He moved to Reno, Nevada a few years ago and I’m too far away without the financial means to get to him. So I sit here at my keyboard, with tears streaming down my face, trying to process my emotions: fear, doubt, defeat, sadness, guilt — and above all — love.

Normally, I would call my folks and see if they’d heard from him (without alarming them, of course). I’d just casually phone my dad and ask if they’d spoken with Chase recently and then have a congenial conversation about what was happening in their lives; but, my parents are currently in Portugal and the last thing I want to do is worry them unnecessarily. I’m also a bit a peeved with them at the moment in regards to my baby brother.

Chase still owns a home here in Tucson and my parents stay at his place when they’re in town. My brother doesn’t get to visit often; but, when he does, it’s usually because he’s trying — once again — to “dry out” and sober up.

I maintain the property when my folks aren’t vacationing here. Last week, when I went over to inspect the interior for termite activity (there’s been an ongoing battle with the lil’ buggers that we’ve had to keep an eye on) I found beer in the fridge, liquor on the pantry shelves, and a coffee table book about wine in the living room — all things left behind by my parents.

Mom and Dad lament about the fact that all three of their children — and their grandson (my son) — ended up being active alcoholics, and Mom often says that she doesn’t understand why. I’ve been sober for more than six years and every time we go to dinner as a family I am the only one (aside from my husband) that doesn’t order an alcoholic beverage with my meal.

During the holidays, my folks always have a fridge full of beer, a rack full of wine, and a liquor cabinet full of spirits.

They know how badly Chase is struggling with his alcoholism — and how difficult it is for my son to maintain his sobriety (which he has a delicate handle on) — and yet, they seem oblivious to the concept of “enabling.”

A part of me wanted to toss every last thing in Chase’s house that either contained alcohol or eluded to alcohol (like that goddam ridiculous coffee table book); but, I just walked away — pissed off and bitter.

Later in the week, once I’d calmed down a bit, I spoke to Michael about my anger. I asked if he thought I should speak to my parents about it and he said, “Honey, it wouldn’t do you any good. They have never listened to you and they won’t listen now. Your best bet would be to talk to Chase. He’s going to have to be the one that talks to your folks.”

I sighed and fell into my husband’s arms in defeated tears. Talking to Chase would only piss him off and put a divide between us that we’ve spent years crossing and making more narrow; and he’s right about my parents. I could whisper kindly or holler and scream until I’m blue in the face. The only thing I’ll accomplish is having them angry with me.

A month before Cole blew his brains out he told my mom that he was in a dark place and needed help. In response she promised to find him a therapist after his next surgery (which was four weeks away). Two days after the procedure, my younger brother was dead.

I don’t understand their ambivalence and they don’t understand my “overreactions” to it.

I have tried to explain how difficult maintaining sobriety can be in the best of circumstances. I’ve had long conversations with my mom about the events that led up to my own suicide attempts. I’ve urged them to help me get Chase into therapy. I have expressed my intense fear that we will lose my baby brother to this damnable disease that seems to plague us all if we don’t band together and do something. My parents just look at me like I’m nuts and say, “He’s got to save himself and you need to stop overreacting and worrying so much.”

I hope to God I’m overreacting. I pray to Cole: “Coley, please watch over Chase-o. I can’t lose him too. Losing you shattered my heart into a thousand pieces and it hasn’t yet healed. If something happens to Chase, I don’t know how I’ll survive it. Please, please keep him safe.”

Goddam it all to hell. Why won’t this f*cking phone just ring or ding or something?! Light up with a notification from Chase already you stupid goddam piece of junk! F***ck!