Today, I remembered you died. The moment of giggles and fun fell flat and stale. The guilt that boils over upsets my stomach. Everything froze and I couldn’t breathe. At first, I feel ashamed. Seems impossible that something so important could be forgotten. Your death feels locked in a tight corner, until another moment of realization. A tragic event that I simply forgot.
I wish I could say I nudged the thoughts of you away like I do with others. My brain has a habit of pushing my demons into a deep hole. But they are there, present, always awake and roaring. Forgetting your death is an act of pure dismissal or denial perhaps. Literally I don’t remember you’re gone. The reasonable side of me understands this is a form of healing. A way for my brain to breathe and soothe its wounds. Yet, your suicide rages back at me. Lashing out at the moment of remembrance. Clawing its way through my emotions as if I am reliving the phone call informing me of your passing. The other side of me, the one that bares my mental illnesses, becomes irrational. Consumed with guilt, shame, anger, remorse, grief, and self-loath. Among these are several other emotions that have no name or description. I fall into a cycle of hate because I forgot. I feel crazy, like I have lost my mind. This healing mechanism is destroying me.
Guilt is the strongest emotion. Lately I have had a few good days here and there. Days like today. Where friends gather and I laugh again. Tears don’t threaten. Medication keeps the darkness away. At least while I am distracted. The grief experienced with Dad’s suicide was traumatic and fast passed. I don’t remember any conversations during my seven days leave from Army Basic Training. I wish I could remember talking to you. Reaching out to you. You were the youngest and from my point of view, the closest of us to Dad. But, I don’t remember. The shock of Dad’s death and being back home made my memory fuzzy. I recall hardly speaking at all. I never reached out to you afterwards either. Too absorbed in my own life, grief, and personal tragedies that happen in the years to follow. Selfish. Too focused on getting my life in order that I left people behind. My good days sometimes burst like today when I remember again that you’re dead. Not just dead. Gone by your own doing. Another suicide to grieve and try to comprehend.
Someone reminded me recently that anger is part of the grief stages. And that I must be doing well in my grief. I am not. Typically, I’m floating between four of the stages daily. Seem ridiculous to put grief into a nice tidy box. Grief is a messy cluster fuck of emotions. Grief is also selfish and personal. Isolating so much it’s suffocating. It feel like it is it’s own type of mental illness I must bare along with the others. Some days I laugh, most days I cry.
You were supposed to be my one safe sibling. Tucked away from abuse and neglect. Far from the drugs and alcohol. You never had to come home to find Dad passed out on the floor overdosing, having a seizure, pissing himself. Weren’t around for his severe struggle with prescription drugs and later the street drugs. The ins and outs of rehab we attempted him to go to. There are things that children should never see their parent go through. This is one relief I have that you never saw.
I never had to protect you like my other siblings when we were younger. Shield you from horrible circumstances given to innocent children. I knew you had a strong support system with your mother, kind grandparents, and family. Things we didn’t have. I assumed you were okay. How could you be? I certainly wasn’t- wait- am still not okay with Dad’s death. I will live with the guilt over my last words to Dad for the rest of my life. I understand now, that you cannot help someone who does not want to help themselves. This took me years to comprehend after Dad’s death. But, this does not help the guilt and pain of his suicide. Nor does it help with yours. It was selfish of me to expect you to be okay and safe even after this event. It was only natural after conditioning myself to think that way all these years. I will never forgive myself. You were probably my one sibling who needed me the most and I was absent. I am so sorry.
I hate myself when I mentally wish you had passed any other way. Cancer. Car accident. Drug overdose. I can think of a few hundred different ways. It feels disgusting that I think this way. Society would be more accepting if it had happen a different way. People would react different. Not look at me like I was broken or think my family was broken. There would be no shame. The sharp sting of shame people throw in my face when they find out how you or dad passed away would not be there. Down to the pit of my stomach I wish this every day. This is my story to tell. Our family story, not others. Wish I could say our story was about unexpected cancer, doctor visits, and failed treatments. Ours is about suicide. Demons. A choice to leave. A source of regret no one ever understands until a loved one commits suicide. Your story of pain so deep you wanted to leave this world to be with Dad. To stop the daily battles and end the war. A war I cannot forgive that I was not with you in. A war that I will rage against the world to let our story be heard.
My heart is torn and broken. It’s hard to feel anything besides pain, regret, and anger. I have depression and a few other different mental disorders. There are days that seem like a haze. Where the heartbreak dominates my being. I feel numb. The ever-fake smile falls and I slide into a grey buzz that surrounds my thinking. There are deep, dark places that I have been. It scares me that I could slip back into that place. The understanding that someone I love has been to a deeper, darker place. A place where they turn to suicide, literally terrifies me and breaks my heart. I am grieving violently over your suicide. The fight against your demons was lost and mine rage louder as a result.
My mental illnesses that I have fought hard for so long to control, went on a frenzy after you died. For that I hate you. Hate that you did this to our family again. Put this on your Mom and your family. We are survivors of one suicide. We know the type of pain it causes. Understand what it means to comprehend a suicide. Yet, you did this to us anyway. Again. Knowing what we went through with Dad has been one key figure in my depression. I never want any of my loved ones to feel the way I do. I wouldn’t wish these confusing and conflicting feelings on anyone. The impossible mission to grasp something we will never comprehend. I hate you for all the “what ifs”. Where I must question every step in my life to understand where I went wrong with yours. There are too many questions to ask. Countless moments I wish I could relive. I come up with new questions and moments daily. All the more I hate you for not reaching out, for staying secluded in your pain and grief, for not getting proper help, for so many things. You were much like Dad in that aspect. Anger and hatred burn through me and over shadow the pain and regret some days.
I have this god-awful fear that our mental illnesses are hereditary and that I am more prone to the diseases than normal people. I am terrified and obsess over if one day my depression reaches a point and I become suicidal. There have even been moments where I have tried to prepare myself for when that times comes. Thinking that it will eventually happen to me too. Even though my rational side knows, this is something that I will never ever turn to. That the trail I choose to take many years ago after Dad’s death. That no matter how bad my dark place got, I would keep fighting. I would not give up and let my family relive another suicide.
There should be a specific word to describe what it feels like when grieving a suicide. It’s a very distinct type of grief. A unique type of death. Society tells me to be quiet spoken about it and pretend suicide doesn't happen. I never forget people’s uncomfortable reactions when asked how our father passed and I would bluntly state suicide. It took years to be that comfortable to speak it out loud. It’s an unspoken truth that no one wants to hear. I’ll never know how you felt about Dad’s suicide. I never asked. I won’t know how your own demons manifested. So many questions I will never be able to answer. I won't be quiet about this any longer. Try to hush your death like I did with Dad's.
We both took Dad's death in different directions. Your path darker than mine. You turned to the same solution Dad took, while I battle on. I can't help but think of the quote taking from the movie Hook, "To live would be an awfully big adventure." This is the path I am choosing. The original quote in the book by J.M. Barrie is darker, as many children stories originally are. Your path was filled with demons you couldn’t battle on with. I lived in a fabricated fantasy for years. A prettier version of the world I built to hide behind while I choose to ignore the darkness that surrounded me. My imagination my savior. I learned recently that you turned to alcohol and drowned out the static and noise. My path was extremely the opposite. Too terrified to take a step too close to alcohol and drugs. Or rather, to look at them at all.
There is a lesson your suicide has taught me. I have finally found that I am not Dad. I am not you. If I can survive everything up until now and still see the light, still live in my fantasy world, I know that nothing will push me over the ledge. There are things that I am meant to do on this world. I plan on making them happen. This extreme need to do something pushes me through the depression, panic attacks, and anxiety. You gave up. I know all too well that there are days so dark that there is no light. But, I know the light will return and that is something that maybe you either didn’t want to see again or thought wouldn’t return. I could have easily fallen into the same plot line. I could have turned to drugs or alcohol. Both so easily accessibly in the house I grew up in. Dad’s suicide kept me farther away from all of it. Instead you turned to it. My fear of turning out like my parents is what kept fighting.
Your adventure on this world ended dark. I hope that your new adventure, free of the pain and darkness, is pure and amazing. We all have our own beliefs of what happens when we die and I picture you living on in the same fantasy world I picture for myself. I will continue to live with my guilt and regret. I wanted nothing but happiness for you and I know in my heart that you found it finally. Know that I love you dearly little brother, despite the pain and hate and that I am sorry I was not there for you.
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