How Could I Forget--Even for a Second?

It's crazy, but I still think about my brother every single day, yet a part of me forgets that he's gone.  I guess maybe it's just that I don't want to accept it.  I was thinking just the other day that we need to split something three ways--like always.  We don't.  The kids' proofs came for their spring pictures.  As I prepared to order them, I thought about how many pictures I need.  One less there too.  How can I possibly forget?!  I mean, it's something I think about every day!

I'm managing a lot better than I was, but I still feel guilty for having "normal" moments.  I feel even more guilty when I have a happy moment.  I have gone through a few of the "normal" steps of the grieving process now.  Not quite in the same way that I probably should though.  I have a lot less anger than I probably should.  I have experienced a little, but it's more for what a mess he left my parents than it is for me.  I haven't really felt much like it was my fault.  (In case you didn't know this, most of the time the survivors feel guilt and anger when a loved one takes his or her own life).  I don't really think that there was anything I could do.  He knew that we would do anything for him.  He knew that we loved him.  I still don't understand why he did it, and I probably never will.  That's something that will always bother me.  He knew what suicide does to the survivors, and he would not do that to us--especially not the young man that he considered a son!  Something somewhere went wrong, and we'll probably never know what and why.  That reminds me of the well-meaning people who have said, "I didn't know things were that bad."  Well, it wasn't.  And what that comment does to some family members is make them think that you think their loved one was mentally unstable.  For some survivors, their loved ones are transformed into saints quite soon after their deaths.  I understand why they say that and that it's well-meaning, but there are some who do not.  It angers them.  It's so difficult to find the right things to say when someone dies because there are no right things to say.

That brings me to another point.  Looks like today's post is going to get a bit "religious"(for lack of a better word--although I hate the connotation that goes along with that word now).  One thing that brings me comfort is that I believe death was never part of God's original plan.  I'll never forget that a former preacher of mine used to talk about how God is a good God.  He would say that God doesn't give you cancer and sickness because "every perfect gift comes from above, from the father of lights."  He said, "God doesn't have any of that in Heaven."  Well, as I've come to understand what it is to be a parent, I understand better the idea of God as a loving father.  In addition, if you read in Genesis, God put the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden.  Death was never part of His original plan.  Death never entered the picture until Adam and Eve sinned.  So I don't blame God when someone dies.  He didn't take them away--especially in this case.  My brother made a choice, and because God gave us the gift of free will, God did not prevent him from acting.  I don't agree with his choice, but it was his choice.  I wish he'd have given me the chance to talk him out of it, but he didn't.

Well, I lied today.  I didn't mean to.  Someone asked me how I was doing.  I said, "okay." It's too complicated to answer that question with the truth right now!  One minute, I'm okay; the next minute I'm not.  Today, I don't even know what I'm feeling.  I've had moments that were not bad, but if I stop and think about how I'm doing, or if I have a quiet moment, it's rough.  I don't think it was too bad today until I went to church.  There was a little video as an introduction to the sermon.  It was about an empty Easter basket being just an empty basket.  Then it connected to the difference between an empty basket and the empty tomb.  Well, unfortunately, I got stuck on the empty basket.  My brother's basket would have been empty last week if we still did Easter baskets.  From there (for me), it went to empty chair (at Easter) and ended with the great big empty place in my heart.  I'm not sure that's really an accurate description, but right now, I'm not sure what is.  It's not exactly an empty place in my heart because there are memories in my heart, but there's definitely a piece of  my heart that is missing.

I had planned to write a more positive blog this time.  I want people to see that there are times that are "normal"--the NEW, not-improved normal.  Yes, I have some good moments.  Last night, my son and I went to Chick-fil-A for the Mother-Son Date Knight.  It was great.  There's a part of me that almost feels guilty every time I have a moment of joy.  I know my brother loved me and would want me to keep on keeping on, but it's difficult not to feel guilty.  As I said before, it's the end of the world, and I don't understand why the rest of the world is just going on like nothing happened.  There's a part of me that remembers sweet moments from our childhood and treasures those.  They have become bittersweet.

I think life has become bittersweet.  I love the spring, and it usually makes me feel so full of life and energy.  Now, I go back and forth from life and energy to barely able to make myself crawl out of bed.  If I am asleep, I don't remember.   Getting to sleep; however, is another problem.  I have too much time to think before I fall asleep.

Well, I have no more time to write today, so I'll try to end on a positive note.  I don't have anything of my brother's right now, but I did find a book that had been his on my bookshelf.  It's from 1984, and it was a Christmas gift from our neighbors in Michigan.  We had already moved down here, and they sent us gifts.  So I'm going to treasure this old book.  Finding it reminded me that I have a couple other books that he loved so much at home, and I'm going to go buy a copy of Snow.  It was one of his very favorite books before he could even read.  He had that thing memorized.  Maybe that's why the snow (that was really graupel) wasn't beautiful after he did.  Maybe I subconsciously thought about this book.  I'm glad to have the memories--and I'm glad that no one can take them away.

Twenty-Four Hours Later

What is wrong with you?  How can you say that you feel peace less than twenty-four hours after your brother shot himself?

I know where my brother is, and it’s a much better place than he was in before.  He is free—free from worry, free from stress, free from an un-healthy relationship, free from the physical pain that he felt pretty much daily.  God has given me peace.  It’s certainly not something I would find on my own right now.  I’m having trouble finding my way out of bed each morning.  If breathing were not involuntary, I’d be having trouble breathing right now.  As it is, it physically hurts to breathe.

Having found peace does not mean that I don’t miss my brother unbearably.  It just means that I accept what happened.  I don’t agree with his choice, and I never will.  I am angered that he chose his course of actions despite knowing how I feel about suicide.  He’s experienced suicide from the survivor perspective, so I would have thought he’d remember the pain well enough not to choose to put others through it—especially the young man his heart called son, the young man whose heart called him dad.  I, too, have experienced suicide from the survivor perspective—twice before, and a third time now.  I’ve felt the anger and the guilt.  What could I have done to stop it?!  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I think in some ways, the guilt is even worse this time.   I’m the big sister.  I’m supposed to take care of my little brother and sister.  What difference does it make if they are in their forties?!  But I understand, too, the desperation of feeling trapped in a situation that is bigger than you can handle, something that seems to have no way out.  I understand what it feels like to have that demon sitting on your shoulder, whispering that it’s never going to get any better, so you might as well kill yourself.  I know what it feels like to be so desperate that you pray to God to just let you die.  I’ve felt that anger at God for not listening and letting me die.  I hate that he felt his only way out was death.  I wish I had known it was that bad for him.  I wish he had asked for help, a place to stay, anything.  I wish he was here—for me, for my parents, for my sister, for my children, for the son of his heart—but he’s not, and as much as that tears me up inside, I have peace regarding his decision.  I know that Heaven is beyond anything I can fathom, and I could never ask him to give that up and come back to his desperate situation.  My heart rejoices that he is free.  But my heart is also shattered—like a cheap, glass Christmas ornament—the kind that has such tiny shards that there’s no way it could ever be glued back together.  (It’s a good thing God doesn’t work at repairing hearts.  He’s in the business of regenerating hearts).  I am devastated, but I am held together, knowing that his loving Father in Heaven has gathered him into His arms and collected his tears in an alabaster jar, recognizing them as the jewels that they are, adding the tears that I cry now—even the ones that I cannot cry—to them.  I can see him smile as he rests in the arms of God, his heart once again made whole.

I love him enough to let go.  It hurts like Hell, but I release my pain, so that God can make it into something beautiful.  I know that God will work good out of this.  Maybe my brother’s death can stop someone else who is on the verge of suicide.  Maybe my students who have attempted suicide or are considering it will see how it has hurt my family and choose to wait it out.  Maybe my own children will see how painful this was and decide to keep on just one more day.  Maybe all this will do is make me stronger, so that I can survive the next tragedy—although at this point in time, I can’t imagine going through anything worse than this.  Whatever it is, I know that God will carry me through it.

I hurt more than I ever knew was possible, but my brother is free.  Knowing this, brings me great comfort.