I’m going to see my 31-year-old nephew in prison next week. I’m terrified.
The last time I saw him was shortly before Xmas, he showed up at my door in the middle of the night because I wrote a book that he believed mentioned him by name (my mother put that in his head). He was hurting, lost, high. I live alone in a tiny apartment. I was too afraid to let him in. It broke my heart to turn him away.
The next week, he was arrested.
I’m driving to Lindsay for a 20-minute visit — a visit that took over a month to arrange. I promised him I’d come. I keep my word.
He stole a car. He had been living in a tent in Peterborough, and I can’t help but wonder if he was just searching for a safer place to sleep. He’s deep into meth. He was placed in foster care as a toddler. His father—my brother—died a few years ago from a drug overdose. His older brother (my parents’ first grandchild) died from drugs too. I don’t know if my nephew will survive this chapter, but I hope with all my heart that he does.
My parents created this. My father raped and beat us as kids. He went to jail for two months. My nephew is serving more time for stealing a car. My mother? Never held accountable. Never stopped enabling.
They sit comfortably while their children die in pieces — some in prison, some in addiction, some in grief.
I’m okay. But I’m furious.
Tonight, I will breathe. Kundalini. Slow exhales. I’ll let my body release what my words can’t. And I will sleep.