Help Me Find My Brother: Surviving Traumatic Brain Injury and Addiction

By Maria A. Colavita

Help Me Find My Brother is a memoir about Maria Colavita’s relationship with her brother Angelo. It details the journey she and her parents endured as they discovered the person he had become and uncovered his years of self-destructive, addictive behavior and the resulting tragic accidents.
Growing up in an Italian American house, Maria and Angelo’s loving parents worked hard to provide many good opportunities for their children. Maria enjoyed the brighter opportunities that came her way; but struggled to understand why Angelo chose the darker path of life.
Her fun loving, intelligent brother was lost to the world of drug addiction. Maria has worked for the past 40 years to help Angelo; trying to steer him toward a life with a brighter future. She’s shared her story of how an ordinary traditional family with old school values understood and handled their lost son and brother.
Help Me Find My Brother is Maria’s attempt to understand the difference between Angelo’s drug addict lifestyle and his traumatic brain injuries and mental illness. While she may not have gotten her fun-loving brother back, she became a much better sister and daughter because of this journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Dec 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642379419

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1975–1980 Who Are We?

My older brother Angelo was an interesting, fun loving character who loved to joke around and have a good time with everyone. He was tall, thin, and handsome, with beautiful blue eyes. Along with being gifted, intelligent, stylish, and creative, he had a charismatic personality and was generous to a fault. Growing up, many of his so-called friends took advantage of him. He eventually learned how to weed out the fake friends, but it took him many years to do so.

Angelo was lovable and liked to tease me. When we were in the car with our parents, we’d end up fighting because Angelo would make faces at me or call me names like frizz-a-wig, because of my very curly hair. I’d yell back, "I’m telling Mommy." He would then mimic me and the fight would begin. To make me smile again he would tickle me or wiggle his ears, making me laugh and forget that I was mad at him. (His ear wiggle would prove quite helpful in our later years.)

Angelo traveled to Italy with our uncles many times before he hit his mid-teens, speaking the language fluently. In his teens, he played guitar and sang in a neighborhood rock band. Playing at Columbus Park and school dances, he was a hit with all the girls. He loved school, and excelled in every subject and activity he participated in.

As time went on, our normal family lives would experience lots of changes. Being a teenager in the seventies was very trying and confusing. New rules were established for education, parenting, and dating. The social scene was expanding. Much of our teen years were influenced by what we saw on color TV. Children who grew up as first-generation Americans, like Angelo and me, were faced with new American ways. This was a stark difference to the traditional upbringing our parents raised us with and expected us to adhere to. We had a difficult enough time figuring out modern times, let alone people from other cultures.

Imagine trying to explain to your Italian-born father that you don’t bring your brother with you to a school prom? Really! That issue caused a fight between my father and me, so I never went to any of my proms because of it! Of course my brother went to his proms. Being a boy, he had much more freedom than I did. He didn’t miss a party, prom, trip, or anything else that was happening during his teenage years.

Angelo was two years older than me. I learned early on the benefits of having an older brother. I think that most of the coincidences in my life were planted by my brother and planned by my father. There was always a little guardian angel with me throughout my life. Sometimes it was a good thing; sometimes it was annoying; and many times, it was just plain weird.

My brother’s behavior, coupled with his funny antics, preceded him. He traveled to Europe for his senior high school trip and made it into the Italian newspaper with his friends. The story circulated that Angelo and his friends had decided it would be fun to climb up into the girls’ section of the hotel. Only they didn’t climb the staircase or use the elevator, because there were chaperones on the girl’s floors. They decided it would be better to climb up the side of the hotel, entering through the balconies!

Then there was their return trip from Italy. While going through customs at the Philadelphia Airport, Angelo and his cohorts decided to wear suits and neckties. It was the seventies, so no teens wore neckties. When their parents saw them dressed in such formal attire, they commented on how nice they looked. You could see the look of fear on all the guy’s faces. You see, they had hidden enough jewelry and gifts in those ties to open up their own warehouse. They just didn’t want to get stuck in customs.

All of these antics were very funny at the time but held an underlying lesson to be learned by all of us in the years to come.

Angelo brought mayhem and fun to my life. Most of my girlfriends loved him; others dated him. I don’t even want to know what happened with those girls!

One day, my brother had let me drive his Eldorado around town. It was shiny, yellow with a brown convertible roof, and white leather interior. Everyone knew his car, so within minutes of me driving around the neighborhood, a bunch of girls had started to follow me down the street. As I came to a stop at the corner, a girl jumped out of the car behind me and ran up, warning me to leave Angelo alone, or else! She had no idea who I was. "Or else what? I’m his sister," I replied. She immediately changed her tune, kissing me on the cheek and apologizing, running back to her car.

That night, Angelo came home with a homemade cake. Laughing as he handed it to me, he said, Here, this is for you. That girl who followed you earlier today made this cake for you because she felt bad. Being Angelo’s kid sister had some definite perks. I went wherever I wanted. I did not have to stand in lines at clubs or restaurants. Angelo knew the manager or owner at most of the hot spots, which meant I didn’t have to pay for anything either.

I also learned that there would be rougher, not so reasonable people following me because I was Angelo’s kid sister. Those memories are much scarier and complex and came with a price. But until that happened, I had fun with it.

Between Angelo’s connections and my father and uncles’ businesses, doors were opening. My dad designed and built box and neon signs in Philadelphia, New Jersey and New York, which opened the door to many lifetime friends, and even more coincidences. This was also where my brother started his long road of no return.

Angelo always tried to impress his friends. Even when they got greedier, he kept trying to impress them and the ladies, to a point of excess. Once gambling was legalized in Atlantic City, the circle of foolishness became inevitable.

Having a home in Ventnor, and a cottage in Wildwood was a luxury that Angelo and I learned to enjoy. Our trips to the shore were memorable. Angelo and I grew up on the shore – our childhoods were spent at my grandparent’s Ventnor home. We spent our summers on the beach, enjoying visits to Lambert’s Ice Cream Parlor, walking on the boardwalk, and going into Atlantic City in the evening to ride the amusement park rides.

My cousins also had homes in Ventnor and Margate, so our families were together most of the time. Those were the good old days, until the Casinos opened and forever changed our family pattern.

My parents would eventually purchase their own shore home once my grandmother became too toxic to deal with. She thought she had a mansion in Ventnor, and that my parents should kiss the ground she walked on because she allowed us to stay at her home every summer. She was a spoiled woman who used my parents and abused their kind nature.

My maternal grandmother was a big woman with beautiful skin and pretty wavy hair, a fake smile, and sneaky eyes. Everyone was too afraid of upsetting her – she would throw a tantrum, anywhere, anytime, in front of anyone. My family wouldn’t dare confront her about her behavior. Her toxic venom made me cry many times over the years. I wondered why her soul was filled with jealousy.

CHAPTER 2

1975–1980 Who Is She?: Grandmother From Hell

My grandmother was one of twelve children born to immigrant parents from Sicily, Italy. Her parents moved to America, where her father was a butcher on the infamous 9th Street, now known as the Italian Market. Two of her brothers died when they were babies, and one child was stillborn.

I remember loving my grandma when I was a little girl. I wanted to be like her! I loved to watch her get dressed for a party. She’d fix her hair, put on a little blush and lipstick, and always smelled so good. She was always telling us a funny story about relatives. As I grew up, I realized she was more sarcastic than humorous, and her sarcasm was usually directed at my parents. My dad, who had such respect for her that he wouldn’t even think of answering her back, took the brunt of her sarcastic remarks.

When I think back now, I realize there were only two men she really loved—my brother and her son, my uncle. She despised almost every other man, including my grandfather. There was something mentally wrong with her thinking. She was so jealous of her sisters’ relationships with their husbands and children. She’d either throw out a sarcastic remark about them, or give a negative twist about a gift they had received from their loved ones. On happy occasions, she’d criticize almost everything.

She never had anything nice to say about her sibling’s children, but my grandmother knew better than to say something about their children. Most of her nine sisters had bigger mouths than she had. They would immediately put her in her place.

Her hatred caused many years of fighting and disappointments for my parents. She was jealous of my mother’s good relationship with her own father. My grandmother would insult my dad’s family, or start feuds between them and my parents, just to put a damper on my mother’s life. The arguments could continue for months, sometimes causing my grandma to not speak to us for months.

This was exhausting to deal with. My mother would be hurt, then take her frustrations out on either me, Angelo, Dad, or all three of us. She was sweet as could be to everyone else. It was a learning experience for me. As I became an adult, I realized just how deceitful my grandmother was to her own daughter and family. Even so, my mother still wanted a relationship with her mother.

When my grandma wanted to get her way, she knew how to set off my grandfather. Throwing relentless tantrums, or biting her own hands were normal occurrences. If my family would walk in on one of their battles, Grandma would get louder and even more destructive. She didn’t care if we, as little children, saw her acting so ridiculous. She had a point to make! Without fail she would guilt my mother into changing our family’s plans, to take her where she wanted to go, or do what she wanted to do. She used my parents and my brother over and over.

Once she realized she couldn’t manipulate me, her hatred towards me was born. Rather than try to repair her broken relationship with her husband and daughter, she found comfort in the sympathy she got from other family members, like my cousins and their children, who would sympathize and listen to her gossip about her own family. Most of her stories were greatly exaggerated, or pure fantasy.

One summer day at the shore, Grandma decided she wanted to join my cousin and her husband for dinner at the casino, without my grandfather, so she started a fight with him over him watching TV. I left and went to my cousin’s house a couple blocks away. At this point, she got Grandpop to start yelling back at her. Fifteen minutes later, a distraught Grandma arrives at my cousin’s house, running through the dining room into the kitchen, where we were sitting. Screaming and crying, she hit the wall, and slid down it as though she had fainted.

Trust me, she hadn’t fainted, and was not distraught. This was her dramatic way of getting out of cooking and staying home with her husband, so she could go out and have fun with my cousin’s parents. I, the outspoken teenager, blurted out the truth–that she had started the fight and was such an actress!

You’re no good. You take his side. You wouldn’t help me! she barked at me.

Her antics worked. My cousins pitied her, giving her water, and wiping her face with a cool towel while she laid on the floor like a fool.

The funniest thing was that my grandfather was all too happy for her to go out so he could stay home, relax, and have some peace.

With that exchange, her venom and hatred toward me never ceased. I was labeled a troublemaker. That label tortured me through the years, and still does today.

My mother tried so hard to win her mother’s love and approval. Grandma knew it, but wouldn’t give my mother the satisfaction, love, or happiness she deserved. Instead, she interfered with everything my parents did, including how they disciplined their children. It was very confusing for me. My mother would be so agitated with us when she’d return home from spending a day with my grandmother.

My mother could not see how happy her mother became when she and Dad were arguing. The heartache and venom she caused was so strong that my parents even contemplated divorce. Thank God they didn’t go through with it. My parents learned years later just how much they loved each other. Even after 63 years of marriage, Dad still brings Mom coffee in bed, and kisses her when he walks in the house. They still care for each other, despite my Grandmother’s attempts to ruin their marriage.

CHAPTER 3

Molding Him Into a Corner

My brother learned early on that he could play people against each other. When it came to my father and grandmother, he had their number as early as eight or nine years old. They loved his funny stories, and if there was a little drama, that made the stories even funnier. It didn’t matter to them that someone was hurt or property was damaged—the story was great to talk about.

For example, when my brother and his friends broke a police car’s window. They were throwing rocks at each other near the old prison—the same prison that was located across from the police station. The police came to our house to report the problem to my parents, who in turn yelled at and punished Angelo.

He was sent to his bedroom, where he climbed out the window, down the roof, into the alley, and to the street. He then went to his friend’s house, who lived across the street from my grandparents. When I told my parents what Angelo did, my grandmother, who was always at our house, started calling me a troublemaker and a liar. She told me I was the one that had upset my parents, and I should be ashamed of myself.

My parents, being so respectful of her, agreed with her and gave up, saying, "He wasn’t the only one who broke the police car window." If that was the case, then why did my parents pay for the repair? Angelo's behavior continued, as did my parent's patterns of covering for him, for many years to come.

As the years passed, my brother’s funny antics became increasingly more dangerous. He was my grandmother’s darling, admired by my father, and adored by his girlfriends. It was very upsetting and frustrating for me. I repeatedly tried to show my parents that Angelo was getting out of control. He was very into himself. It would be many years before I realized that my brother was actually insecure. When he felt his insecurity building up, he would explode.

In the seventies, my friend Karen dated my brother for a short time. I think they went to the movies and dinner a few times. That was just enough time for Karen to realize what I had noticed all along—something was wrong with Angelo! She told him she wasn’t going to date him anymore and just wanted to remain friends. He did not take that decision very well.

Karen, my mother, and I were getting into my car to go shopping one night, and my brother exploded. He wanted to talk with Karen to win her back, but she wasn’t having it. She told him, No, got in the car, and off we drove.

We thought that was the end of it, until I turned the corner and saw my brother running toward my moving car. He then jumped onto the hood of my car. I slammed on the breaks, he fell off the car, and screamed at me calling me a troublemaker. He then yelled at Karen to talk to him, while trying to break the passenger window of the car.

Would you believe there were people who actually felt bad for him, including my grandmother and father? They felt that Karen couldn’t do better than their Angelo, so they pacified and comforted him. My poor mother was in shock. She couldn’t get them to understand what had really happened, so she stopped talking about it. This would become my mother’s way of solving all future problems with Angelo.

Angelo thought he was becoming more independent because he was working with my father. He’d work a few weeks, then relax or travel. When he needed money, he would work side jobs that didn’t take away from his socializing. Those side jobs brought him more fun with the ladies and more money. Go figure!