Several decades ago, I stood in the Dakota Badlands, marveling at the wagon ruts left over from the pioneer days. The tour guide said that these travelers had many fears and motivators as they battled the tough terrain. Rough winters and coyotes, the search for food and a driving inner fire blazed the trail, forging them west towards the unknown. I remember thinking that these people were risking their lives for a chance to start anew. Hard to know what they were running from or to, but not hard to understand the scamper. I remember my twenty-something self, looking down at those ruts and thinking that maybe their motivator was getting the hell away from their families where ruts of relation run deeper than those made by wagon wheels.

My brother is an alcoholic. It’s a heartbreaking disease. He was sober for a long time. Now he isn’t. I love him. I hate him. He has been in a detox unit and rehab this year and now he is drinking again, drinking with the commitment and intensity of someone who loves their sport. Drinking at breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, and snacktime. Drinking because it’s the centerfold of his life around which all other things and people orbit without gravity or grounding.

It’s hard to navigate a relationship with an addict. They manipulate and lie, yet it’s hard to stay mad with them. They make promises, cry, take little steps forward, yet it’s hard to believe them. They are dissecting themselves and their lives in front of you – and while you can pick up the pieces – they will eventually be thrown down again along with the empty cans and bottles. You cannot fix it and it kills you to watch them self destruct; breaks your heart that you can’t decode the bomb.

It has been a week of tough love for my brother. I have been enabling him – it has been out of hope and worry – it hasn’t helped. I am conflicted between loving kindness and accountability, held hostage by the fear that rock bottom may be like a collapsing coal mine, one that he may not survive. In the proverbial debate of WWJD and let go and let God, how can you ever be sure of when to do what?

My brother is stuck in a place that doesn’t exist anymore. Caught up in old tales and stories of his youth, of days when our parents were still alive. He speaks to people in our home town and doesn’t see how they look at him when his back is turned. He doesn’t see that they notice that most of his teeth are missing or that he has streaks of dirt on his neck. He doesn’t see that he looks homeless and desperate. He laughs and sings and tears up at country songs. He is harmless unless you block his chance to drink, then all is fair in love, war, and liquor. We parted ways for a while yesterday. I asked him to let me know when he is serious about getting better. He responded that he’s doing fine and with that I drove away, the shadow of his thin frame lingering in my rearview for miles and miles.

I know that somewhere inside the alcoholic armor, somewhere deep and dormant is my real brother and if he will drop that bottle and get back on the wagon, we can ride through these Badlands and be free.