Turning Away

It’s been just over 2 years since I started this blog. Two years and 165 posts on grief, life, and family. Over 60,000 words about my brother, my thoughts, and the process of living after suicide.

I provide these figures because, for the past couple of months or so, I’ve been coming to the conclusion that I don’t have much more to write. There’s a lot to learn in 2 years, but lately, almost nothing feels novel anymore. For the first year, everything was new. I’d never lived a year with a dead brother before. Last year was about learning to live in non-immediate grief. I wasn’t doing everything for the first time, and that, in itself, was new.

Now, I feel like I’ve experienced enough to give me a pretty solid handle on what life is like after death. There will be moves and jobs and new events; growing babies, and new babies that will never meet Uncle 3; songs and shows and stories that remind me forcefully of my brother and my situation, and others that I don’t think relate to me that well at all; the incredible love of friends and family, enough to carry me through interactions with those less compassionate; I’ll choose to tell some new acquaintances about my brother, but not all. Mom will still have a harder time than I do, and RJ will be the worst off of all; I’ll still ask people to pray for both of them before they pray for me.

And I will move through life with comparative ease. My brother’s suicide will have very little impact on my day-to-day activities. At night, at least for the forseeable future, I’ll still talk to him, telling him that I miss him and love him. If I have a bad day, or if I just choose to let myself really remember as I lay in bed, remember what that first week was like, from getting the phone call to giving the eulogy, I’ll cry with the same realization that brought me to tears 2 years ago: I want my brother back, and that will never happen. That desire will always be there, I think, to some extent.

This isn’t to say that new experiences won’t arise. I’m sure they will; at 28, I know I’ve only seen a very small fraction of the human experience so far. Still, I don’t know how many of these experiences will be new enough to motivate me to post again. I started this blog as my own digital Pensieve, a way to organize my scarily jumbled thoughts after my brother’s suicide. It really was only for me – my own way of coping. However, a small part of my writing was done with the hope of helping others in this same situation. After 3 died, I couldn’t find many helpful, real resources on sibling suicide. I know now that every grief process is different, but maybe someone in the same horrible, tragic place will find some solidarity in my descriptions. Of course, I also know that this blog is virtually impossible to find, even if you’re looking for blogs on brother suicide, but still. There’s always that chance.

So thank you, to the anonymous internet people and anyone who has read anything I’ve written over the past two years, especially those who have been kind enough to comment. Every single comment on this blog has been gracious and supportive, and I’m grateful for every single one. Again, I don’t know how often I’ll return here to update, if at all, but it’s been an immensely helpful part of my grief process. I don’t know if I am emotionally any more whole that I was two years ago, but I know more, and knowledge is, in fact, power.

In many ways, 3’s death is no more Real now than it was at the beginning. I know he’s not here; that’s a pretty undeniable fact, but suicide and death are so much sharper, so much harder to accept than simple absence. Still, I’ve learned a lot and I’ve lived. I’ve lived over two years without my baby brother, and I’m going to keep doing just that. In the face of such intense, personal agony, I can’t really ask more than that.

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 🙂

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.

There’s Luck in Isolation

I’ve written before about my increased need for control and my gratitude for not living back home. Since I moved back from Ireland, these feelings have only become more salient. This evening, I’ll fly back from Florida, hop into my car, and make the 3 hour drive back to my apartment, resettling into my comparatively solitary life. It’s been a truly fantastic vacation – I swear, I went entire days without thinking of all the work I have to do when I get back – but my isolated living situation has some therapeutic benefits, too.

In the past year, members of my family have faced more than their fair share of stressors. J’s husband had trouble settling into life in a new state, putting pressure on their marriage. RJ’s vapid roommate decided to move back in with her family, leaving RJ with no way to pay for the apartment and necessitating her move back home. RJ even considered moving in with Dad, but just before she could, she totaled her car, which ultimately led to her moving back in with Mom and Stepdad. SL bought a new house, which is exciting, but obviously, moving a family of 4 with two toddlers to a new city is not an easy or relaxing experience.

Then, there’s me. I’ve been loving being back at my home university, but things are certainly hectic. Applying for jobs is terrifying, and running a study on my own, however small, is an enduring test of my organizational and people skills. Yet, because I live on my own, I only have to worry about me. While J told many of her siblings about the bumps in her marriage, and Mom pretty much told everyone about RJ’s car crash, I have the luxury of sharing only what information I want to share. Yes, I can tell my family about applying for jobs, but I can water down the stressful aspect of it. If I have a bad day, I can deal with it by myself, without worrying anyone else. I just buy myself some Starbucks and watch TV at home until I fall asleep.

That sense of independence not only satisfies my desire for control, it also serves to minimize my opinion of any stress in my life. If Mom isn’t worried, if my sisters aren’t sending me supportive, consoling texts, then life can’t really be that bad, can it? And it’s not, obviously. I’ve got a TON going for me. 3’s death gets further and further away, and I feel like I can handle anything. By isolating myself to at least some degree, without people feeling sorry for me or acknowledging any difficulties, however minor, I get to act life everything is fine – there’s no one around to tell me otherwise 🙂

My Brother Shot Himself, So I Get A Vacation

As I post this, I am sitting in a large, tiled room in resort in the Dominican Republic. I can see gorgeous greenery out the window, and I got a massage earlier this afternoon.This is my “My brother shot himself, so I get a vacation” vacation.

I have no qualms about telling people this reasoning. Over Labor Day, when my aunt found out I was headed to the Caribbean, I repeated that exact phrase. Aunt looked stunned and said “I don’t know what to say to that.” Stepdad helpfully told me I was being overly blunt. I suppose it’s not really fair to make other people so uncomfortable by blatantly justifying my vacation with my brother’s suicide, but I desperately want this vacation to feel reasonable. Also, I’ve never been particularly tactful, anyway.

It’s been nearly 2 years since 3 killed himself. While I don’t think I ever neglected to take care of myself over the past 20 months, I also never really chose to slow down. I finished my dissertation, graduated, moved to a new state, started a new job, moved to a new country and, for all intents and purposes, started a completely different job. Now, I’m applying for tenure-track positions, which effectively has me planning my entire professional life for the forseeable future. It’s been exhilarating, exhausting, and occasionally frustrating. The one thing life has not been is relaxing. So now, I am spending six days in the Dominican Republic with M, followed by 10 days in Florida with Kay.

It’s not just about feeling like I should deserve a break, though. By aggressively using 3’s death to justify this trip, part of me thinks that I am doing some of the coping that I’ve neglected over the past year and a half. Maybe, if other people agree with the idea that 3’s death was hard enough on me to warrant a tropical getaway, then I’ll be persuaded to use some of my time on the beach to contemplate the loss of my brother, to really face it in a way that I often feel like I haven’t.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll lay out on the deck chairs, gazing at the turquoise of the Caribbean, reveling in the surreality of the fact that I’m actually laying on a tropical beach, staring at palm trees overhead. Maybe this can be a regular, late-20-something vacation, a celebration of finally having enough money to travel in a marginally decadent fashion, a celebration of my amazing friendships with M and Kay. I took many international trips before 3 died, and I’ll take many more in the years to come.

I really don’t know. I still think about 3 every day, and his death still feels like a huge part of my life. Yet, 20 months seems like a long time – too long to be claiming his suicide as a reason for taking a vacation. Too long to still be bringing it up in conversation, reminding people to think about it.

Ugh. Too much thinking. This might be my dead brother vacation, but, damnit, it’s still a vacation. I’m going back to the beach.