Most people, when confronted with tragedy, turn to family and friends for comfort. But because I have adjusted to life without a family, and grown accustomed to concealing and suppressing my pain, I turn to pen and paper instead. Some of my words--often the ones most drenched with angst--I destroy, or tuck away in a secret place, never to be read by anyone. Others I cast out into the world, hoping someone else who's had a similar experience will happen upon what I've written and glean a ray of solace, or, better yet, be compelled to make a positive change in his or her life, and, in this case, benefit from my mistake.
So here's what happened: One of my brothers recently passed away. By choice. He took his own life, leaving behind no trace of a reason for his action. Only questions, questions that wake me in the middle of the night: Was the way he did it a shrouded message? Was what he was wearing a hint as to why? Was his dysfunctional childhood somehow to blame?
As masochistic as this may sound, I long to feel the devastation of this loss of a sibling, my brother, my blood. But because I never got to know him at all, because of the unfortunate truth that he was nothing more than a passing acquaintance, I am left only with these unresolved questions, and a gut-wrenching sadness at the thought of him reaching the hopeless point of where the only way to end his unbearable pain was to end his life. And guilt. Most of all I'm left with guilt. Guilt that I never put forth more effort to make the lanky cotton-top boy, who once played in the background of my childhood, something more than a vague memory.
I wanted to start a relationship with him after Mama's death, last year. I thought it would be a good time to at least begin. After all, Mama was the one who had kept us apart. Wasn't she? But he didn't think it was a good time. Too soon. So we put the idea on a backburner and that's where it stayed, simmering, waiting for one of us to pick it up. But neither of us ever did. I'll always be tormented by the thought that maybe if I'd tried harder--pushed harder--to become a part of his life, I could have somehow stopped him from turning down the dark road he ended up on. Or not. Maybe there's no amount of familial love and support that could have saved him. I'll never know, because now it's too late to find out. Too late to say I love you, brother.
No matter what happened there is no way or words that can stop someone from committing suicide when that is the path they choose. YOU are the strong one and he showed his weakness and probably guilt. That is his guilt...he did not help you growing up. I pray for strength for you!!
ReplyDeleteAli, you are always so kind and thoughtful. Your words are powerful, and your opinion means a lot to me. Thank you for your prayers.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your kind words. And you are very welcome for the prayers.
ReplyDeleteI just finished your second book, literally second ago. I devoured both the first and second... I didn't grow up in an abusive home, my childhood was pretty average. But I have always been drawn to the story behind every person. Your raw honesty is refreshing in a world where most people don't reveal such deep emotions, or even seek answers to their own questionable feelings. I too, have thought often of writing a book, for different reasons. I do feel as though I have an important story to tell. I'm glad I read yours!
ReplyDeleteMy blog (which unfortunately is often neglected a bit) is ahomeforlondon.blogspot.com
I'm so sorry for the loss of your brother. I understand your feeling that he was only a passing acquaintance in your life. My relationship with my siblings is the same way, also not by my choice.
ReplyDeleteI understand, too, the regret, the guilt, wondering if there was something you could have done to prevent his death. And the hopelessness of having to grasp the fact that it is forever too late. I felt all these things when my cousin died five years ago, a few hours after our last phone conversation. It's a long story, I won't go into the details, but her tragic untimely death hit me very hard.
Five years have passed, but I still miss her every day, I still regret. I cling to the hope that she is with God now, and we will be reunited someday.