A Book that Does Apply to Me (and Other Thoughts)

Since moving back to Ireland this year, I’ve read nearly 25 different books, and I am absolutely loving it. New series, recommendations from friends, family, and the internet, and re-reading of some old favorites. I haven’t read any of these books specifically thinking about 3, and since the two purportedly relevant ones I read over the holidays were decidedly un-relevant, I wasn’t expecting anything overly personal.

Then, this past week, I started reading the 13th novel in a fantasy-ish series that a couple of friends recommended months ago. The always-wonderful KP sent me the whole series for my Kindle (easily my favorite new toy from Christmas this year), and I’ve been devouring the story since then. It’s gotten progressively darker, as most serialized stories are wont to do, but it wasn’t until the 13th book that I was really thrown.

Guys, this book fucked with my soul. As I was reading it, I desperately wanted to e-mail Not-Father Pete or KP, both of whom recommended the series to me, to tell them as much. In the book, the reader gets a few detailed flashbacks, illustrating how much the protagonist went through before the series started, how damaged he is. Because I’ve read 12 books about this guy over the past 3 months, I’ve become quite fond of the character and felt myself empathizing with the broad strokes of the situation. Huh. We’re all fucked up, and we can never truly escape the horrors of our past, no matter how amazing the people around us are.

Then, during one such expository conversation, a friend of the protagonist uses the phrase “That’s the difference between dead and gone.” I. Mean. Really. I am not so arrogant to think that I’m the first person in the world ever to think of or write down that phrase, but still. To have it come in the middle of a book that was already pummeling me with a storm of introspection that I wasn’t prepared for seemed a bit much.

And then I finished the book on Friday and got over it and moved on. Maybe, having let myself get so wrapped up in the series, I resonated with the idea of not being able to escape from a painful past even if I didn’t have a dead brother, duplicate phrasing notwithstanding. But I do have a dead brother, and I’ll always have a dead brother, so that’s where things end up now.

And that brings us to Story #2: I was on a job interview a few weeks ago, out to lunch with one of the search committee members. She struck me as a straightforward, no-time-for-sugarcoating kind of person – just the kind I like. While we were chatting, veering further and further away from actual job-related topics, she mentioned that her son committed suicide 4 and a half years ago.

Three years ago, if someone had said that to me on a job interview, I probably would have been more than a bit thrown off. I mean, who says that kind of thing to a complete stranger? Suicide is such an uncomfortable topic! Well, yes, it is, and it always will be. But now, I understand. I’ve felt the compulsion to talk about it, even in situations where it doesn’t come close to being socially acceptable. So I get it. And, in turn, I told her about 3. And we spent the rest of lunch discussing the details of our stories, the quirks of grief, and the variety of ways other people respond, from potentially insulting to utterly perfect.

I’ve shared 3’s suicide with strangers before, but, at the moment, I can’t remember ever sharing it in a random situation with someone who knows how it feels. I was also a bit stunned to hear Interviewer describe how, over four years later, she is just now feeling like she’s moving forward from the fog of grief. Four and a half years?!? Is that what my mom is going to have to go through?

That, to me, was the most stunning part. I’ve lived over two years without my baby brother. I think I’ve learned a lot, and I know I’ve had a much easier time than Mom and RJ, but it’s still very much a part of me, even if it’s very rarely on the surface. I know it’s always going to be a part of me, two, four, ten years down the road, for the rest of my life. Hearing it out loud, from someone who’s been there, was just a bit jarring. Enough for me to write it down, anyway.

National Championship

For those of you who don’t follow college football as obsessively as I do, this past Monday was the championship game. It’s significant because it’s the first year of the playoff system, rather than the old BCS system in which a combination of rankings determined the top two teams to play for the championship. It’s also significant because the Ohio State Buckeyes were playing. Ohio State is, more or less, the home team for my family, and it’s where 3 (and various other family members) went to college, before he flunked out, of course.

Two years ago, I watched Notre Dame (another popular family team) get absolutely slaughtered in the national championship, just days after 3 died. It was not an enjoyable game to watch, but I was too overwhelmed to be too sad about it. Last year, I, as my brother-in-law would say, didn’t have a dog in the fight, so I didn’t particularly care whether or not Auburn or Florida State would win. I was already in Ireland, so I didn’t even watch the game.

This year, though, with Ohio State playing, I ordered an online subscription to ESPN, bought myself a late-in-the-day double espresso, dressed in my Buckeyes gear, and settled in front of my computer to watch the game. Oregon scored, then Ohio State scored, then Ohio State scored twice more, and it looked like it might be a runaway. In the second half, however, Oregon capitalized on way too many Ohio State turnovers and made it a 1-point game. Ohio State came back, however, and ended up dominating the 4th quarter. When the clock ran out, the Buckeyes had won, 42-20.

Tedious summaries aside, it was a very exciting game, and I found myself tearing up at the end. Two years ago, we all joked about 3’s “ability” to help Notre Dame win a national championship. This year, it felt more real, more of a “sign” than most things. Some families have connections to nature or music or places. In our family, it’s football. We all follow college football very closely, and you can find games on my parents’ giant TV every weekend from August through January. This win felt validating. My sister K posted a picture of little Angel in her OSU gear, with the caption “Uncle 3 would be proud!” Yes, he would be. Proud of his team, proud of the outcome, and proud of his family for all being so devoted to football 🙂

Class Reunion, Part II

As is to be expected with holidays, lots of things happened over the past week, but I’m going to start with my 10-year class reunion. 

I imagine many people get nervous before high school reunions – what will people think, will we all revert to our behavior from years ago, etc. Since my experience at my 5-year reunion started with one former classmate threatening to tickle me (I responded exactly like my 16-year-old self would have: by saying that if he did, I’d kick him in the balls), I was understandably apprehensive about heading out to the event. I was not, however, really thinking about 3.

I spoke with a few old acquaintances, mostly enjoying myself. About halfway through the night, I referenced 3’s death when telling a story. It made sense; we held 3’s calling hours at the high school, and many teachers attended. Still, it was a passing mention, and I’m almost positive one of the two listeners knew about 3’s death already.

Then, after a surprisingly successful group picture, I ended up in a conversation with an old friend, a girl I spent quite a bit of time with in middle school before we joined different cliques in high school. She passed along the greetings of her mother, and then, to my surprised, started talking about 3. I hadn’t realized that her mother worked in the high school office while 3 and RJ were students there, so she knew 3 personally. My former classmate asked empathetic questions, describing how sad she and her mom were at the news of 3’s death and asking how the entire family was doing.

It was an incredibly gratifying experience for me, and I thanked her for letting me talk about 3 so candidly, even though it’s been almost 2 years. Honestly, though I certainly wasn’t expecting it or even really thinking about 3’s death on my way to the reunion, that kind of conversation is something I’ve quietly yearned for. Many times, before heading to see old friends, I find myself hoping that one of them will have heard about 3’s death and will offer their belated condolences. It’s selfish, of course, to want to add to my confirmed list of people who have thought about and prayed for me and my family since 3’s death, but it’s comforting. While I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve long since exhausted my quota of comfort and support from my close friends, I deeply appreciate being able to squeeze another condolence or two from acquaintances.

Extended Family

Back in August Mom, Aunt K, Gram, and Grandpa drove north to visit Grandpa’s siblings. I always enjoyed spending time with Mom’s cousins and their kids growing up, so I jumped at the chance to join them. We met at a bar and grill by the lake and spent over 2 hours talking, laughing, and trading stories – about 30 of us, covering 3 generations. Mom and her siblings were pretty close to their extended family growing up, so her cousins didn’t hesitate to bring me into the fold when I drove up. (Side note: Mom’s cousins are among the few people left in the world who still think I look like Mom) Even though I’m a generation younger, I got to sit at the grown-ups’ table, conversing with the adults.

Near the end of the meal, as Mom was engaged in a different conversation, one of her cousins pulled me aside and asked, in all earnestness, how Mom was doing since 3’s death. At this point, it had been nearly 20 months, but the cousin was just as concerned as ever. I answered honestly, saying that the second year has been easier than the first, but that Mom still has her bad days.

It was oddly comforting, hearing this kind of concern for Mom over a year and a half later. Of course, we all still live with 3’s death every single day. They’re certainly not all bad days, but the fact remains that my brother, Mom’s son, is dead, so it was nice to realize that people are still thinking about Mom, at least occasionally. I’m glad, because Mom definitely deserves the thoughts and prayers, but it also made me wonder if people are still asking about or thinking about me.

Two huge caveats to that thought: 1) Mom obviously deserves concern more than I do. I know she has more bad days, and I know the experience of losing a child is entirely different from that of losing a sibling. And 2) my friends have been off-the-charts incredible. I’m thrilled and exceedingly blessed with all they’ve done for me. It was just a thought I had. Personally, I know that I didn’t think about KP’s dad after he died, so it’s unrealistic to think that anyone who doesn’t have first-hand experience with death would know that it still matters, even almost 2 years later.

I See Crazy People

I have quite a bit of experience with mental illness. My dad has never been what one could describe as “mentally stable,” and many of his brothers and sisters also show distinct signs of psychopathology. In addition to his probably clinical levels of anger, 3 was also a pathological liar. I’d say he was a bad lair, but then again, who knows how many of his lies I actually caught? All of his stories could have been fictional. Who knows?

Growing up in the shadow of such a prime example of mental illness is bound to leave an impact on a girl, let alone living through a sibling’s suicide, the epitome of unhealthy behavior. I know Dad’s persistent refusal to acknowledge reality has made me less trusting, and 3’s suicide has heightened my control-freak nature, but, this past weekend, I added another quirk to my list of family-influenced behaviors.

I see crazy people. Everywhere. I mentally diagnose others with all manner of psychopathology, praising those who seek help and judging those who seem to lack the self-awareness necessary to get better. I came to this realization while collecting data for my current research study. I’m working with families of children with intellectual disabilities to improve sibling relationships. As I visiting one such family, the mom chatted at length about the new job she was applying for describing in detail her myriad skills that aren’t being utilized at her current job. Now, I don’t know this woman very well. I’ve only met with her 4 or 5 times. She’s incredibly nice, and I love working with her kids, but I didn’t believe her. While the mom was talking about her work history, I kept thinking “You’re not as good as you think you are. You’re probably a bit narcissistic, tunnel vision, blaming others for your problems,” etc.

As I walked back to my car after completing the visit, I considered my reaction. How very unfair I was being. I have no right to silently judge this woman, to paint her with the same brush as my father and his siblings, to think her a liar like my brother. Yet, I do this kind of thing all the time. A friend discusses her husband in aggrieved terms? He must be depressed. Get him help or divorce him as soon as possible, lest your poor infant children grow up to resent him the way I resent my father. Someone tells a marginally strange story? They must be lying. I bet they lie about everything. No one can be trusted.

Of course, I am not exempt from my own mental diagnoses. If I get caught in traffic and show up late or forget to return a phone call, I assume the offended party won’t believe my excuse. They must think I’m lying. Who really gets stuck in traffic? Sophomore Year Roommate can’t possibly be OK with the fact that I rescheduled a trip to see her at the last minute. She must think me terribly self-centered and arrogant.

It’s exhausting see crazy everywhere. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I’m wrong in all my judgments, but I do know I’m not doing myself any good by making them. Some people are healthy; not everyone has to deal with the same psychopathologies that seem to permeate my existence.