MANILA, Philippines—When I was four, my jolly, playful, artistic Uncle Allan—or Tito Joey, as I fondly called him—would visit from school almost every day. He was my mother’s youngest brother, my favorite uncle.

I vaguely remember the times he’d play the guitar as I danced to the rhythm and beat of his song. I remember the day I introduced him to my best friend, and how he played with us until my friend needed to go home. I remember him showing me the strands of my hair that my late grandmother had clipped into a desk encyclopedia in the hope it would make me intelligent, and how he laughed when I asked how that was possible.

These are the only happy memories I have of my uncle; after my sixth birthday, he was always too far away for me to visit.

Angry

Something different happened to my uncle the year I turned six: he grew thinner; his face began to wear an angry expression; he turned cold and quiet. The guitar songs and games we had played together ceased. At the rare times he seemed happy, I would sit on his lap and rest my head on his chest. But, as I sat there, I could smell the stench of cigarette smoke on his clothes.

Was it cigarettes that turned my dear Tito Joey into a stranger? No, it was something worse than that.

I remember the last time I saw Tito Joey before he was completely changed. He was sitting on our backyard one night on one of his frequent visits, brooding. He and my mother had just finished arguing. His head was resting on his hands. I went up to him and asked if we could play. I remember how he answered me: he didn’t look up; he didn’t look at me; his face was twisted in an angry expression, downcast. His only way of acknowledging me was to raise his head slightly. He told me, “Pwede ba, Jessica! Lumayo ka nga muna! (Come on, Jessica! Stay away from me!)”

Dumbstruck, I made my way back to the house, thinking that everything would be all right, and he would play with me tomorrow once he had cooled down. I waited and waited for his next visit. Then my mother finally told me that Tito Joey had gone to a rehabilitation program because of his addiction to methamphetamine—shabu. I was shocked.

Toll on family

My parents never took me along to visit Tito Joey in rehab. They wanted to protect me from seeing my uncle suffer, but they could not protect me from seeing how drug addiction could take its toll on a family, as well.

There were times I’d see my mother cry. She would tell me that Tito Joey was in the hospital and that we could lose him.

Sometimes she’d tell me to pray for my uncle and ask God to help him recover.

At seven, I tried to understand what was happening. I could already tell that something was wrong. So I’d do as she told me to and prayed, or I’d sit down and try to cry with her.

As I grew older, I became even more aware of the situation. I understood how difficult my uncle’s addiction was. I saw how it caused tension between my mother and her two siblings. Issues arose around trust, responsibility, finances, and how exactly my aunt and other uncle should handle the money for Tito Joey’s medicine and care. This time I heard the fights over these issues and understood what was going on. I realized that the tenuous bond that tied my mother’s family was breaking. I realized that Tito Joey had changed for the worse. His addiction left him sick. Shabu sucked all his energy, weakened his organs, and damaged his brain—he would never be the same again.

Unrecognizable

I had just turned 16 when I had the chance to see Tito Joey again. I was no longer the little girl he used to play with, and he was no longer alive. He was unrecognizable. The body I saw lying in the coffin was not my Tito Joey, but the ghost of the young man I used to know. I wept for my uncle, for the time he most probably felt lonely, for the time he finally lost hope, for the time he lost out to addiction, for what he could have been, what we could have been, and for what—now—can no longer be.

Growing up knowing I had an uncle in rehab and seeing how it affected my family defined me as a person. Young as I was, I realized how serious drug addiction is. People my age are tempted to disobey their parents just to try something as dangerous as drugs thinking that one puff would do no harm. But seeing the pain my Tito Joey’s shabu addiction caused my family, most especially my mother, has made me grow up immune to this temptation.

Life is full of choices, which must be made carefully. Rules are made to keep us safe. We must understand where our parents are coming from.

From a young age I resolved never to do drugs and to share Tito Joey’s story with others—unashamed—to encourage others to fight the temptation of drugs. I learned from my uncle’s mistake, and I hope never to become what he turned into. I never want to lose anyone to drugs without putting up a fight ever again!

Tito Joey’s death made me realize how fragile and unpredictable life really is. I decided to live my life with no regrets: to consider the consequences of my actions, to carry out my plans, and to tell those I love how much they mean to me.

The author, 18, is a journalism freshman at UP Diliman.