By Jessica Murdoch
Content note: Alcohol, suicide attempts, suicide ideation
For a long time, I couldn’t stand to listen to a voice message from my mother.
A missed call. A notification to phone 101 MessageBank. The forced brightness in her tone as she would ask me to ‘Call whenever you get this.’ It would set my heart racing. The tightness in my throat made it difficult to swallow. The fumbling as the screen wouldn’t respond fast enough to my touch. The shot of adrenaline that would take hours to disappear, even after I finally got hold of her and learned it had nothing to do with Jack. Not this time, at least. Eventually, I had to train her to start every message with, ‘Everything’s fine!’ Or better yet, to just text me whatever she needed. No drawing it out. No surprises.
And she still does it. Even though he’s been sober and doing well for nine years. Some habits die hard.
I was six years old when Jack was born. People warned my mother to watch out for how I would respond to his birth. They were so sure there’d be trouble. I’d been an only child for so long, I wouldn’t appreciate being out of the spotlight. But from the moment I’d been told there was going to be a new baby, I’d been absolutely enchanted. Besotted from the moment I’d set eyes on him. That tightly swaddled package. Placed for the first time into my reaching arms. Delighted to welcome my very own baby! Because he was. He was my baby. Sibling rivalry? Never heard of it.
It was an epic night, the first time we got drunk together. His eighteenth. Mum and Dad were flying out on a trip the next day, so we played the night straight through. Everyone for dinner at the Irish Pub. Then all the younger cousins and best friends skipped through a crawl of bars and clubs, where we stopped drinking pretty early, none of us flush with cash, but all of us tipsy enough on the shared joy and fun. Crashing out in a small sticky room until the early hours singing karaoke in Chinatown until they told us it was time to leave. Getting a taxi straight out to the airport to see them off at the gate. We were young. We barely felt it the next day. An afternoon nap, and it was like nothing had happened.
Jack was never a drinker when he was in high school. All his mates knew they could rely on him to be the designated driver. Nah, no worries! Jack’s driving. He used to say he didn’t understand how people could have a good time getting so smashed. So out of control. Why would they do that to themselves? Like the time he came to pick me up after I’d misjudged a night out.
‘Payback for all those times you taxied me around, right!?’ he laughed.
He recorded me seriously explaining the importance of a Macca’s run at the end of the night. Poked me relentlessly the next day as I had to carry my head around in my hands.
The first time he ended up in ICU, it was touch and go all night. They weren’t sure how many pills he’d taken. All of us silent, waiting.
When you have an older sibling, one who dotes on you, you don’t need to do the hard stuff.
When you’re the cute baby, everyone wants to take care of you.
When you have people fixing problems before they become your problems, how do you learn to ask for help?
When he’d go out in the city with a bunch of friends, I’d lie awake. Waiting for the phone call. It wasn’t a matter of if. It was always when. I just had to hope it would be a mate saying that they’d had to take him to the hospital. Or that they’d called an ambulance, and he was on his way there. Not something worse.
The sense of relief when the call actually came through. When I could stop waiting on the knife edge, maybe catch a little sleep before visiting hours would open in the morning, and I could go in to pick him up.
Sheepish. Unable to meet my eyes. Promising that it wouldn’t happen again.
We both always knew it would.
The first time he’d been kicked out of a bar for being too drunk.
The first time he told me he just wanted to die as we sat there waiting for a taxi.
The first time I found him bleeding in the alleyway outside of a club.
The first time he could talk about what was wrong when he was sober.
The first time I watched him decline a drink.
The first time he said thanks for not giving up on me.
Funny that I don’t remember any last times so clearly.
He doesn’t keep secrets now. He’s learned to talk through those hard feelings. So have the rest of us (thanks, therapy). Things aren’t perfect. Maybe we actually fight more than we used to, but that’s because we’re not walking on eggshells anymore.
Has there been a last time?
I can never be completely sure he is sharing everything, even though I have no real reason to doubt it. It’s an ongoing fight, even when things are going well. Even when you know you’ve turned a corner, new habits can be hard to make.
And the ghosts of old habits never quite disappear.