The Man Behind The Mission

October 1, 1990 - July 20, 2023

Alex was a child with an abundance of curiosity and love for all. His very presence never allowed for what might be considered the darkest parts of a severed household to seep into those around him. He was a constant reminder of the beauty, wonder and intrepid enthusiasm of youth, no matter the circumstance. 

As I reflect on the bond between my brother and I, I'm reminded of the transformative power he left with me, that to this very day, ignites my essence for this borrowed time. You see, Alex’s words were a guidebook of life. Moments turned to days, days to months, and months to years - my feet, determined and only half his size, trailed and fought to fill his shoes. He was courageous beyond the imaginable and I would stop at nothing to prove myself worthy of a place at his table only to be reminded he had already pulled out a chair with my name on its seat.  

I often speak to Alex’s hidden insecurities and struggles that led to the latter portion of his use, but there were many factors that I wasn’t able to distinguish prior to its severity that I don’t have the chance to talk about. Though we were close in age and bond, we both internalized the separation of our parents with an alcoholic, absent father differently. I believe a majority of what he carried from his youth through his teens into adulthood was shaping him internally in ways even I couldn’t see.  

My mother began to work late hours to provide for our family as a single parent, which left Alexander and I home together quite often. I still remember walking home from elementary school together, hand-in-hand, unless to play it cool in front of his friends. No matter what, his words and actions always reassured me that as long as he was there, nothing bad would ever happen to me.  

Children don’t always know the right questions to ask, instead, they internalize. We missed our Papa, but adapted to his absence in accepting it as a norm. Somehow, we understood that “pretending” made us feel more normal within our circumstances by accepting our father’s flaws as a momentary issue rather than an on-going struggle. We normalized when our mother began to date, and eventually marry, again. Thus, we normalized a lot of what would otherwise feel painful by reframing those experiences to our benefit in the little ways we could. 

 Our teenage years were filled with endless nights of partying, taking full advantage of our unsupervised time. We coated our backwoods in lean and stuck them in the fridge to then fill our lungs with weed closer to the nights end when we'd had our over consumption of alcohol. Eventually, our naivety and invincibility led us to pills – which we’d crush about any kind to snort. We skipped school to get drunk or high, rob grocery stores for beer, get caught sleeping in abandoned apartments, take ecstasy, cocaine, oxy… anything to reach our "safe" euphoric state and bond deeper through our favorite music. 

 Alexander and I were never not in alliance, except for the times he was injecting heroin, which I never saw him partaking in through my own eyes. Sometime in our late teens, early twenties, I vividly remember him slouched over with a cigarette burning his leg that didn’t seem to bother him – which was the first of at least 100 more times I’d see him that way. Despite never trying heroin myself at that point, Alex always shared details with me about using; like “candy flipping” to stay up, or how his blood splattered when he’d shoot, which I’d come to find on his bedroom ceiling while living together. Of everything he shared, he was adamant that I “better not ever touch it,” myself. 

 Alex kept me safe, which made it that much easier to try drugs in his company, that I’d never worry, if I were to consider. On one occasion, while I was navigating through an agonizing breakup, he’d invited me to watch a movie and sleepover at his place. When I asked what he was on, noticing a familiar difference in his behavior, he admitted to snorting heroin. This night was the first and last time I'd ever try it myself, and would have never without him present, because I knew he would be there if I needed saving. 

 My brother's life was a relentless barrage of boulders and hardship, each obstacle growing larger and more formidable with time that, despite his best efforts, he could never seem to dodge. I saw Alexander plummet to the depths of hell, all the while pleading for him to accept mine, or anyone’s help – I couldn’t stand to watch him suffer. I often refer to Alex’s journey in life in comparison to a proverbial mountain he continued to climb. Despite being knocked down time and time again, his spirit was relentless, and he constantly demonstrated a fearless will to live. 

 He would get sober again for moments, weeks, or months – then came another boulder. With each blow, I could feel him progressively slipping off of that mountain. The last year of his life, while living with me and my son, was undoubtedly the toughest year of my own; watching Alexander’s life slowly end right before my very eyes, feeling utterly hopeless. In my grief, I often blamed myself, the “dangerous alcoholic” version of me, who partook in the camaraderie leading up to his downfall. Eventually, I could no longer handle the withdrawals I was experiencing in my own addiction. 

 During his use, I was trying to heal – which made me resentful of his behavior. As badly as Alex needed me, I was attempting to focus on myself and my recovery, for the first time in my life. The wedge this created between us turned me into somewhat of a villain in his eyes, which fueled the tension and vile arguments. He was seeking attention and company of others suffering as a blanket to wrap around himself and he could see I was no longer willing to be that for him. At this point, I’d taken the largest step away from him in the direction of my own healing – determined to fill the shoes he'd stepped out of, but I’d always looked up to. 

I involved our father with my concerns about the lengths of drug consumption Alex was reaching, who without fail always showed up – a testament to his own healing since his absence in our childhood. Alex would come downstairs strung out, lacking sleep for days on end. Looking us both in our eyes, he began screaming, crying, and swearing up and down in defense he wasn’t using. We stood closely watching him wear himself down, trapped in denial, our despair growing with each futile attempt. I followed Alex to the kitchen as he stood facing away from me. Then, with eyes as big as the moon, he turned to face me pleading, “Becky, please help me, I need you,” as he fell into my arms. I’d never experienced a hug like that before, one that held the weight of the world within it.  

I did everything I knew best to do; I offered to go to Anonymous meetings with him, which he’d agree to and attend alongside me… at least a few times. I made to-do lists to help him prioritize repayment, in financial, physical and emotional matters, to keep him from feeling overwhelmed by the tasks he had to face. Unfortunately, despite my efforts, one bad circumstance sent him spiraling right back into relapse.  

When Alexander wasn’t on heroin, he aggressively consumed alcohol. From dawn to dusk, at work, at home… you name it. He effectively replaced one addiction with another to cope with his demons. He stole from countless individuals including family members. He robbed a pharmacy, not once but twice, at gunpoint – never to be caught. He risked visitations with his daughter and the security of his job by drinking liquor on the clock. The reckless lengths he was willing to go to were limitless.  

I would find Alex in the mornings inside the garage, passed out in his car. I’d find him on the couch in his own sweat, or moaning in pain as he took cold showers to minimize the withdrawal symptoms when he depleted his supply. All I wanted was to make him comfortable, to give him peace – I hated witnessing my brother in the moments he was most ill. It was a pain I wanted to endure and save him from; for I knew, all he was going through would inevitably kill him if he didn’t stop.  

Our lease was ending, and my hands were tied. I realized that, at his age, my brother had to want healing for himself. He had to want to fight the hardest fight of his life, for himself, and his daughter. I would shortly be moving into a separate home, away from him, and all I wanted was to know he was going to be okay alone. I needed him to be.  

Days before his passing, we sat outside in our backyard together. We hardly exchanged words, but I could physically feel Alex’s shame. He was set to move back into our mother’s house in Spring, TX temporarily until finding his own home. I asked, “aren’t you worried if you move back to Mom’s, in Spring, you’ll be even more tempted to use?” To which he replied, “I can find drugs anywhere. Spring or not, if I wanted to do them, I’d find them anywhere.”   

He never made it to Spring. I found my brother deceased at 1:24 PM on July 20th, in his room of the home we shared together. I keep replaying the last moment I saw my brother. I never want it to, but it forces its way to the forefront of my mind and stays there as if it’s all that exists in the 31 years of life he had with me. All of the moments before, thousands that we shared, squeezed out like they’re not as important. Addiction didn’t just kill my brother; it killed my life with my brother. 

I know we all struggle with regrets when it comes to what we could have or should have done differently, signs we see that go ignored when you want so badly to believe that they’re not hiding behind a mask when they tell you they’re okay. That last year, I knew every trick in Alex’s book and instinctively, reached out to family, knowing in my gut he was using again. This time, was different… as if his body were but a shell, hollow and colorless, and the light had completely gone from his eyes. 

 I had moved out the day before and several hours had passed that none of our family had made contact with him. I drove back to the home we shared with the presumption I’d find him passed out like I had many times before. When I reached the top of the stairs and approached his bedroom door, I was stopped from opening it due to weights that had been placed on the other side. Still, I was no more alarmed than usual because this was often how he barricaded himself inside his room as an alert to himself should anyone try and enter.  

Shoving past the weighted door, I saw Alexander sprawled across his mattress on the floor, his body lying face down. I remember thinking, “here we go again,” as I reached for my phone to snap a photo to send to my mom. His head was turned away from me, lying on his cheek. As I walked around and approached his bedside to see him, I'd discover he was gone. Though I knew he was no longer there, I attempted to shake him awake. 

To this day, I am haunted by the color of his face as I noticed the blood beneath him. The most horrifying, traumatic, and brutal memory I will ever carry, and the last of that of my brother, my confidant, my protector, my best friend, occurred on this day exactly one year ago.  

When Stan initially extended the invitation for us to speak at Open Door Mission, we were grateful for the opportunity without realizing the significance of the date. I like to believe it wasn’t coincidence at all, in fact, I believe it was in God’s timing. It gives me peace to know that what I could no longer see in Alex’s body, the Lord already had his hands on. Knowing that in his last days, Alexander sought a relationship with God gives me the reassurance that his death wasn’t in vain. As flawed and imperfect as we humans are, there is nothing less than perfect about the purpose God has placed in each of us.  

Just as Romans 12 Verse 5 says, “So we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another,” it is important to me that you all know I consider each of you family. Whether or not we have formed a personal relationship, we are bonded by our circumstances and covered by God’s love. I am deeply grateful to you all allowing me to share the pieces of my brother that may have otherwise been lost, like so many others, but instead, has given his story a new and greater purpose. Thank you.