genre1.decesare

Dear Diary,

My mom won’t stop crying. She and Brian got in a huge fight yesterday because he wasn’t going to his hockey games after she spent so much money on his gear and the league itself. I woke up for school this morning to my mom cursing and yelling at him. I got out of bed thinking it was the same shit, just a different day, but I was definitely wrong. I went down stairs to see what all of the commotion was about, only to see my mom with a clear plastic bag in her hands filled halfway with rectangular, white pills. My brother had always come home to what seemed to me was drunk, but I had no idea he was taking Xanax Bars let alone selling them. I sat there in awe watching what was initially an argument escalate into a violent rage. My brother was in tears, aware that he had gotten caught, but too messed up to own up to it. Being six foot, two inches and 185 pounds, my brother was no longer a human and instead, some monster. Pacing around the kitchen and punching walls and cabinets, me and my mom were passed the point of scared especially considering the fact that my dad was at work. There was no way either of us were going to get in the path of this destructive and agitated creature who was once my best friend. Knuckles bloody, he tried defending himself feeding us every excuse in the book. He knew he had broken our hearts. Pushing past us, he went down the basement but ended up falling down the stairs. The basement was where he was usually found dipped out from the drugs he was taking. It was like a hideaway, somewhere that he could escape… kind of like the escaping feeling he got from taking the drugs. A sigh of relief came over my mother and me thinking that the fight was over. I don’t know why I ever underestimated him. He quickly returned upstairs after what seemed to be only a few minutes. He attempted to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich but miserably failed by making a huge mess. He wanted to go down stairs again to hide away but he wasn’t stable and could barely walk. It as if he was two years old again, taking his first steps in life. I helped him out and stood in front of him as I guided him down the steps so that he wouldn’t fall and hurt himself. Even though he had done such horrible things to my family, I still loved him and didn’t want to see him hurt. After settling in front of the TV, I went upstairs. I was relieved, which again, didn’t last long. He came back up, but this time he was in full force. Disrespecting his own mom, he was screaming in her face admitting to stealing jewelry from her room to pawn off for money. I will never forget the look on her face. She turned completely white and tried to speak, but no words came out of her mouth. Tears began falling faster and faster and she still could not utter anything. After a long pause she whispered, “get out”. When Brian doesn’t get his way, he throws a temper tantrum, and that he did. Stomping up the stairs, he rushed into his room and started pulling his clothes out of his drawers in distress but eventually gave up. He had lost the war, but was not leaving without marking his spot. Instead of yelling at my mom and taking his anger out on her, his bedroom door was his new enemy. I watched him as he shredded down the door like it was simply a piece of paper, all with his bare hands. Wood was flying everywhere and after only a few seconds, it had been torn off the hinges and only scraps remained on the floor. At this point, my mom had had enough and ordered me to call the cops. Me, 15 years old, had to call the cops on my own blood, my best friend. Police were people who put criminals in jail. Was my brother a criminal? Why was he acting so violent? So many questions ran through my head as I dialed the numbers 911. Numbers I never thought I would dial, or at least the age of 15. After I got off the phone, I saw my mom standing at the bay window looking out my front yard. She had a blank stare, tears still streaming down her face. She asked me what she did wrong, but she didn’t need to say anything for me to understand how she was feeling. The look in her eyes said it all. She felt she had failed as a parent, as a guide in life. She felt like she had steered her son in the wrong direction; she blamed herself. I had to be strong for my mom because I know she felt a feeling that was unbearable. But there was minimal time to talk; there was a knock at the door. The cops immediately went to my mom questioning why he was so violent but my mom did not speak a word about his drug abuse. She explained there was a verbal fight and that he just needed to calm down and he wouldn’t be kicked out. A rush of anger came over me because he was stealing from my family. Loving parents had provided him shelter, food to eat, and a sense of love. Brian didn’t care about hurting our family. All he cared about was how he was going to repay the kid he got the drugs from. I had no idea what drug addiction meant. I didn’t even know there was such thing. I was aware of alcoholism because my grandfather was an alcoholic. After everything cooled down, I mustered up the confidence to ask my mom why Brian was addicted to drugs. She had explained to me that addiction was hereditary and it kind of made sense now. Talking to her for a while about the situation, she said she had researched a little bit about drug abuse because she had an idea what he was doing. She explained to me that people take drugs because of a lot of reasons that they want to hide from. The drugs are like an escape from reality because drugs create dopamine which is something in the brain that controls emotions and happy feelings. She explained one who does drugs over and over again can no longer produce dopamine on their own and are dependent on drugs for that job. I took it upon myself to do some researching on my own. I typed in Xanax on Google and loads of information came up. Symptoms were staggering, impaired thinking, slurred speech, reduced sensitivity to pain, etc. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit. Brian hadn’t been able to walk right which was the reason I had to help him down the stairs, he was cursing out my mom which I had never seen before, and he didn’t even flinch when nailing the walls and cabinets. He felt invincible, while we were hurt. My mother and I spoke nothing of it to my father or to my little brother, and it was to remain that way forever.

characteristics- Language of a 15 year old, first person, flowing sequence of events, purpose, personal insight of whats going on in the person's life.

criteria- heading,personal experience, person's opinion, events or problem, purpose.