The first time I had an inkling that something may have been wrong was when he started asking me questions in the car. Usually, when he was driving, he would control aux while I would tell him about my day or he would tell me about his. Small talk that was actually pretty big for us, because I was starting to feel that I didn’t really know my own brother anymore; these car ride conversations were the only way I got to figure him out. 

He posed the question innocently: “Isabella, what do you know about marijuana?” 

I was fifteen and naive and knew nothing about anything, but I knew something was up now. He had turned down the sound of his shitty Soundcloud rappers to ask me something. This had to be big. “Why? What do you know about marijuana?” 

He laughed like we both do when we’re uncomfortable, and then gave me a whole spiel about the health benefits of weed: it lessens anxiety, helps you sleep, acts as a pain relief. He was trying to convince me, and himself, I think, that he needed a med card – that it would do him more good than harm. I listened, waiting for a time to interrupt and poke holes into his argument, even though I was secretly impressed with how much time he put into learning about this. 

“Yeah, that’s fair, I guess. But what about addiction? And lung cancer?”

“Marijuana’s not addictive. It’s a plant, it’s good for you.”

I shrugged, conceding but not really believing. “Okay, whatever you say.”

“I’m right. Just don’t tell mom and dad about this.”

… 

The next time it’s brought up, we’re in the middle of a bike ride, the sky a watercolor of pinks and blues and oranges as the sun set over the beach and glared into our faces. It’s our first Christmas break back from college, our first time spending time together since we both moved back home for the month. We were technically forced to spend this time together — an annual family bike ride was supposed to put us all in the Christmas spirit, an excuse the parents used to get drunk with their friends while the kids waited to speed home to their actual lives. Besides sporadic texts and calls, this was the first time we had truly spoken since August. 

“Slow down! Wait for me!” He was always leaving me behind, always wanting to speed ahead with a reluctance to live in the moment; this time I wasn’t going to let that happen. 

“Okay, okay! What’s up?”

“How’s everything going? How was your semester?”

“Why?” 

“I just want to talk, I haven’t really seen you since we got back.”

He shrugged, unbothered like usual. “It’s good. Not much happened. So glad to be done with bio.”

We rode down the bike path side by side as I filled the space between us with endless anecdotes. I chatted to him about my new friends, annoying teachers, random parties that always ended up being boring — anything that I thought would have piqued his attention for even a second. I just wanted to be able to talk to him. I only got something from him when I started telling him about one of my friends who tried, but failed, to fix her nic addiction over the semester.

“You should set us up, seriously. We could probably help each other.”

I paused at that, confused. “What do you mean help each other?”

“Nothing, really. Just that I don’t really get high anymore. My tolerance is super high, it takes me a lot to even feel anything now.”

I looked at him seriously now, worried but trying to hide it. “One, I’m not setting you up with her. And two, are you okay? ‘Cause that doesn’t sound like it’s good.” 

“It’s whatever.” He sped off then, leaving me behind. Like always. 

… 

 I couldn’t really control anything about him. I could only control myself, but I was pretty bad at that. At the end of my senior year, my therapist suggested that anxiety medication would be helpful for me moving forward into this new “time of my life.” My parents didn’t agree with her, didn’t agree with drugs at all; I fought them tooth and nail to let me have this one thing that would make my life easier. I had been fighting about therapy forever with them, but this was one fight I really needed to win. Finally, after pleading my case everyday for a month and their own meetings with her, they caved and I received my reward — 5mg of Escitalopram, to be taken by mouth daily with a meal. 

Everything changed for me with that little pill. It was easier to shut up that little voice in my head that told me I would never achieve anything or that everyone in my life hated me. It helped me fall asleep easier, made me realize some of my habits weren’t the healthiest, and kept me aware of when my anxiety started to eat me alive. My parents tiptoed around the fact that I was even on medication, constantly asking when it would be done “working” and if I really needed the pills; they were stuck in the Dark Ages and didn’t want to even try understand why drugs were needed some of the time, or what was really happening in my brain, or my brother’s brain. 

My problems were brought to light with the Lexapro, while my brother’s were still kept in the dark. My parents knew virtually nothing about him anymore, receiving scraps from his one-word answers about himself and his life. I worried constantly about him: was he happy, did he really like his friends, had he cut back on the weed, why wouldn’t he talk to us, is he okay? He was a walking shell of his former self — the light had left his eyes, he barely smiled anymore, and snapped at every little thing  — and all I wanted was my brother back. The drugs changed us into different people, in a way; they helped me, but harmed my brother, and I’ve never liked it when he was hurt and I wasn’t. It felt unfair, uneven; my brain didn’t want to understand the discrepancy. We were growing up, growing apart — this was the one thing neither of us could control, no matter the substances we used to help us control ourselves.