A Letter to the Dead

Sometimes, I find myself thinking about you.

We never had a good relationship.  It was bumpy and up and down, your moods and mine clashing.  We could have been good friends, I think.  If things had been different.  If we had met at different times.  If things were...just different.  You had your issues and I had mine that I didn't want to deal with.  And so we were oil and fire.

Sometimes, it makes me incredibly sad.

Sometimes, it makes me so very angry I can't stand it.

But mostly now I feel numb.

It's been over two years and you've still left a mark on all of us.  I could talk to you about how much my sister has blossomed and grown and still struggles, how my parents don't talk about it unless we bring it up now, how my husband has made promises to me in the middle of my breakdowns that he won't do what you did.  But that's not what this is for.

This is for me.  My words.  To you.

I thought I saw your sister at Wal-Mart yesterday.  I was getting my nails done and she was getting those white tips she was so fond of.  But when she turned her face, it wasn't her.  The damage was already done though.  It's amazing how something so small can still trigger a wave of intense emotion.  I couldn't stop thinking about you, about your family, about what happened, all running in the back of my mind.

They've told me I have PTSD from you and what you did and how you left.

Did you know I had flashbacks last month?  It all came rushing back - the screaming, the crying, the sirens, the numbness and shock and how dazed and confused I was.  When I woke up in the morning, I was afraid to get out of bed.  I was afraid something would happen to my husband if I did, that he somehow wouldn't be breathing when I came back later, that something would happen to me if I left the security of the blankets and faced the world.  It took me an hour to finally move.

This morning was the same.  I woke up praying my husband would be safe and protected and that nothing bad would happen, paralyzed by the fear that he would somehow be taken from me.  Later this afternoon I broke down and cried, sobbing my worries and once again hearing the words I needed that he wouldn't willingly leave this world.

Sometimes...sometimes I think I almost understand why you left like you did, you know?

Sometimes my emotions run so hard and heavy that I can't see straight.  I lash out or poke at the people I care about the most because I can't think right, I say things wrong, I worry on one thought for hours, days, weeks, I itch, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe...the sorrow hits and I cry for what feels like days, for no visible or obvious reasons.  My meds are working now though.  They have been for a while.  I still have those moments where I lash out or poke or cry, but they're more manageable now.

You never had that luxury, did you.  Finding the magical combination.  I remember we once picked you up from an electric shock treatment you had at the hospital to see if they could help your mind.  God, I can't even imagine.  My old therapist once told me that when someone is physically sick for a long time - like they struggle with cancer - and they pass, we say it with compassion.  But we don't account for the people who are mentally hurting without help who can't bear it anymore.

I used to be angry.

Now...mostly I don't think about you.  I've boxed you away for the most part, put in a corner of my mind to be dealt with later, whenever that is.  Not totally healthy, but it's what I did.  Now on Wednesday I'm going to have to dig you back up.  I don't know what I will find.  I don't know where you stand with me.  It's confusing and painful.

Every once in a while, you come back to me though.  Just in waves.  Usually with a small trigger, something inconsequential - thinking I saw your sister, someone telling me a dream about suicide, hearing something in the news or a song on the radio.  And then when you do, I don't know how to handle you.  So I cry usually.

Because it's just so goddamn sad, okay.  I'm sad.  I'm sad that you felt this was your only option, that you couldn't get better, that you hurt my sister like that, that you hurt your family, that your family acted the way they did towards you, that life and love and everything you tried ran through your fingers like sand.

 I know how it feels to try to catch all the grains.  I know how it hurts when they fall.

I used to worry I would end up like you, did you know that?  When I got my diagnosis.  Sometimes even now I have those passing thoughts - will I end up like him?  Our disorder...it never gets better.  I think you probably knew that more than anyone.  It changes our brains until we die, progressing; at least, that's my understanding.  I have to remind myself from time to time:

I am not you.

I never was you.

And it'll be okay.

I guess this is a long letter to tell you that I was thinking about you today.  I listened to one of the songs from your funeral before I wrote this.  I cried to my husband about my fear of losing him, losing people I care about in general.  Part of me almost wants to go to your headstone, believe it or not, but I don't know what I would do there.  Last time I went was  over a year ago and I just ended up standing there awkwardly.

I wish things had been different.  I hope you're at peace.

~Birdie