I literally laughed in his face when he confessed to us, asking for help, 15 years ago. It took us a long time to even believe he was doing crack. That is, when his tapestry of lies has my parents blinded, which these days is more often than not. We don’t expect people addicted to crack cocaine, who’ve been on the pipe for nearly 20 years, to be lounging in a pool in the suburbs, chowing down on prime cuts of barbecued meat and relaxing by the fire and watching a big-screen TV. That’s what Hollywood imagery has led us to expect. That word may conjure for you the image of a wiry, twitchy, dirty junkie, wandering some big city’s streets looking for a purse to snatch so he can get his next fix. My 36-year-old little brother is a crackhead. As a matter of privacy, the author has changed her name. A version of this piece originally appeared on Molly Speyside's Open Salon blog.
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