Guest Contributor – Christle Henzel
A Sister’s Silent Battle
I was 17 years old, and it was 3 a.m. I stared at the ceiling. Where is he? Please, God, let him be okay. I tried to count to keep the nausea in my stomach at bay. 1, 2, 3, 4.
4 a.m. He’s been missing for 7 days. I can hear my mom crying in the other room. She hasn’t slept all night. We don’t talk about it, though; it’s too hard, and I don’t like to be vulnerable.
5 a.m. My alarm goes off. It’s time to get up for school. I stare into the mirror. Why do my eyes always swell when I cry? I don’t want anyone asking why I’ve been crying. I’ll wear a mask again today, and I’ll pretend everything is okay. I’ve gotten pretty good at that.
6 a.m. I am on the bus, and my mind wanders as we pass the creamery. I smile because Jason loves ice cream. Banana splits, actually. I’d give anything to share a banana split with him right now.
7:00 a.m. “Hey, Christle, how was your weekend?” shouts my friend Jenifer.
“Great!” I lie. I don’t tell her that my brother is missing. I don’t mention how he snuck out of the house in the middle of the night last week, and we haven’t heard a word since.
I don’t tell her because I don’t think she’d understand, and the truth is, I am embarrassed. I am embarrassed that my brother is addicted to drugs. As Jennifer begins to talk about her weekend and her lacrosse game, I start to think about how the police showed up last month at our door because Jason stole a car. I think about how I’ve become invisible to my mom because my brother is always in crisis. I think about the cover-ups and the constant obsessions. Is he using again? My whole world has become about him—his problems, his crises—and I find myself beginning to disappear. The hardest part of all this is knowing the other side of Jason: the kind, sweet, loving, and fragile part. The part that I hold onto through pictures and memories. In moments of time, I can even see that side, and it gives me hope, but then he steals it away again.
I don’t tell Jenifer about the stealing or the lies. I don’t tell her about always feeling on edge, never knowing when the next crisis will occur. And I don’t tell her that I am scared to death that my brother might be dead. I keep it our family secret.
You see, there is a lot of shame with addiction and fear of judgment. People who use feel it, and family members and loved ones feel it too.
I witnessed firsthand the devastating impact of addiction. My brother Jason struggled with substance abuse from a young age. This journey wasn’t only difficult for him; it was incredibly hard on our entire family. We experienced emotions that ranged from hope to despair, often feeling helpless as we watched my brother fight an a very difficult battle. Sadly, at the age of 19, Jason ended up taking his own life. That changed my world forever.
I know now that in order to break the stigma of addiction and to truly understand, we need to have open conversation and empathy. Addiction can happen to any one of us so I no longer stay silent about my experience with my brother’s addiction. As Jason has taught me to be vulnerable and to let go of the shame. So I share my story in the hopes of helping another.
Christle Henzel is a playwright, director, school psychologist, and licensed therapist
dedicated to raising awareness about addiction. Christle has written and directed the
impactful plays “Addicted” and “Addicted: Alex’s Story,” drawing inspiration from her
personal experience with her brother Jason’s battle with addiction. Christle creates powerful multimedia productions that foster empathy, understanding, and open dialogue about addiction. Her plays are known for their raw emotional intensity and interactive components, engaging audiences and sparking meaningful conversations about the impact of addiction on individuals and their loved ones. Christle is committed to breaking the stigma surrounding addiction and promoting prevention
and education through the transformative power of storytelling. To learn more about Addicted: Alex’s Story please contact: Christlehenzel@gmail.com
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