Neil

Childhood friendship is the tightest of all bonds, and something we're trying to recreate our entire adult lives. It's an incredible time, before you learn that 'grown up' skill of keeping a distance between you and the next person. You've never been hurt and emotional vulnerability is something you've yet to learn, a glorious time. I feel an aching pity for only children, growing up with three brothers of course you compete for attention and affection, but my little brother became my playmate, my best friend and my soul mate.

We got into terrible fights, naturally, but the hours spent exploring nearby fields, flying kites and making him dress up in Mum's clothes far outweighed the bloodshed and tears. We were unaware of it at the time, but when times got really tough at home the fact we were in it together brought us much closer. 

Many years later I was 17, and in London for a gig I was thrilled about. I randomly phoned home afterwards to jabber away to Mum about it, yet my Dad answered the phone and immediately gave me a clue something was wrong. He didn't tell me much, but calmly told me Mum wasn't in, as Neil was in hospital. I was instructed that there was nothing I could do, and should stay in London and enjoy myself. 

There was very little choice, the last train home was long gone, so my friend and I spent the night in a shitty Earl's Court B&B. She attempted to sleep while I paced the room and cried. The next day I tried my best to have some fun, but failed miserably and got the next train back. It just felt all wrong. 

When I got back I discovered the extent of Neil's illness. He had suffered a brain haemorrhage and had been in brain surgery for the entire night. There had only a 50% chance he'd survive the operation, and survival meant he would most likely be in a vegetative state at best. 

The clearest detail I remember is when I arrived at the hospital panicked and teary. I was shown the bed where my little brother lay unconscious. At that point I lost it, and my eldest brother held on to my hand as if trying to press love and hope directly into my palm. It really is the littlest of things sometimes.

It took weeks, but Neil slowly recovered. My Mum and I visited him in hospital every day, and I showed my sisterly dedication by taking the piss, and eating all of his custard creams. The specialist told us that he was one of only six people in medical history to ever suffer a brain haemorrhage without a preceding head trauma. Not quite the 15 minutes of fame Andy Warhol may have had in mind, but we're all exceptional at some point in our lives.

I don't know if I'm one to believe in miracles really, but the odds of him fully recovering were slimmer than Kate Moss, and yet he did it. Within a year he was back to normal, albeit with a huge scar across the top of his head to show for it. No noticeable effects on his personality or memory, or so we thought. I wonder about that now.

 There was a scandal at primary school when I was 11. Whispers told me that Neil had been caught stealing sweets from Galloway's News. Galloway's was the local hub of activity - everyone competed for the paper rounds there and spent their pocket money in there too. For my little 9 year old brother to be caught stealing from there was a real shock. But that was just the start, and his stealing got more bizarre the older he got. My parents despaired at having a second naughty son, it's only when I look back now that it's clear that he was desperately seeking attention in any way he could get it. Indeed I have been told that the brain tumour was a physical manifestation of all his psychological pain, but I find that a bitter pill to swallow.

My 'little' brother is now 32. He's one of the most intelligent, creative, yet self-destructive people I know. His entire adult life has been a vortex of chaos. He repeats a cyclical pattern of just managing to hold down a semblance of a life for a while, then all of a sudden he'll start to pick it apart, and it all starts to unravel. He's started again from nothing about 6 times now, each time a family member picking him up and bailing him out, yet again.

A psychotherapist told me a number of years ago that he unconsciously wants to be babied, and gets himself into these situations so he'll be scooped up, mollycoddled, and taken care of. And time and time again we have, because we can't stand to see him suffer. And yet every time he's utterly ungrateful, and indignant with his belief that the problems are caused by everyone else. 

On Monday night he was broken, and crying on my shoulder. Telling me his houseboat has been repossessed, he's being evicted from the house he's staying in, and he doesn't have a penny to his name. I know he doesn't get himself into these scrapes on purpose, but he's just not learning the lessons life is trying to teach him. I've talked to him for so many hours about what keeps going wrong, but he just fails to see that he's not taking care of himself and doesn't even know where to start. I've been told that the best thing to do is to let him get himself out of the mess this time, that might break the cycle. 

So tomorrow, when he becomes officially homeless he's being referred to a homeless shelter.

It's clear Neil has severe psychological trauma from the dreadful things that have happened to him, too many to recount here. I've tried to get him to access mental health services on so many occasions, and have had to learn the hard way how true 'you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink' really is. My heart is screaming to scoop him up and make it all better one last time, this will be the time when he sorts himself out, but I know the stomach churning reality. It won't be.

So it's with a heavy heart and an aching soul that we're going to have to stand back and let him enter the system. I can't bear to think what may happen to my baby brother. He's just a product of his past, and I'm screaming on the inside, hoping this might be the jolt he desperately needs. I hope it is.