"I'm self-destructive," I told my psychiatrist weeks after my brother's funeral.
"That's what I like about you," he said. "You're honest."
Awkward pause. Did he really just say that? I wondered.
"What I mean is, I don't think my meds are working," I said, although what I really wanted to say was shut.the.hell.up.
It had been almost a month since my eldest brother, Donnie, died and still grief was difficult to reach. Twenty years my senior, Donnie was in and out of my family's life based on his needs -- money, a job, a place to crash, someone to keep his kids for the afternoon. He spent the rest of his time, as far as I understood, in pursuit of the next high.
So it wasn't a shock when his flirtation with death proved fatal. Showing up to his funeral was like showing up to a surprise party you already knew about. I couldn't adequately feign the proper emotions. I was impatient watching everyone kneel by his body in tears. I was angry that his children were without their dad. I figured I'd probably never feel any sadness and explained away my lack of tears with the fact that our relationship, what there was of it, was complicated. And then one night, a month after his passing, I found myself drunk and full of rage, punching my pillows senseless until I passed out. The well was no longer dry.
At a dinner earlier that night, I had been seated between two people who spent the meal talking about what happens to the body as it dies. They talked about it like two people would talk about a movie one has seen and the other must see.
"It sounds like a train rumbling."
"Air comes out of every orifice."
"The body fights to live, just in case there's a chance it can be saved."
I stared across the empty table off into the distance, twirling my hair nervously. This is what happens when grief is late, I told myself -- no one knows it's there.
* * *
The Donnie I knew tortured my father. He lied. Stole. Cheated. He scared me. There were times when I feared Donnie would finally snap and kill my parents -- his behavior got that outrageous. Donnie was the sibling I rarely mentioned to people I was trying to impress. To people I felt safe with, I described him as the black sheep. Off the tracks. Embarrassing. Pathetic. Selfish. When I was a child, Donnie would talk to me about inappropriate things -- sex, drugs, ex-girlfriends. At the time that's just what I thought brothers did, and then I grew up and realized that's what sick people do. Drunks. Druggies. So when I read through the comments on his online obituary days after his death, I wondered, Who are they talking about?
"His experience and strength, which he shared passionately, provided hope to many who had none."
"I remember all the times we prayed together wondering about heaven and God. I believe in my heart that is where you are and all your questions are answered."
"Donnie I will miss u very much, you were like the brother I never had."
Donnie's only influence on me was to instill a strong sense of what I should never become.
He started drinking at nine, so I didn't taste my first beer until 15. Donnie started doing drugs in middle school, I didn't try them until college. Donnie never went to college, never had a career. I did both, with ambition.
But no matter how far I tried to run away from any connection to him, the comparisons were still made. Family does that, I guess. Despite all the ways in which we weren't alike, my parents would point out all our similarities -- the sense of humor, the obsessive compulsiveness, the hypochondria, the paranoia. I'd rather have been compared to the youngest of my brothers, Damon. He's the Ivy-league educated, mother's dream come true -- athletic, popular, attractive, a doctor. I tried to follow Damon's lead, but it never quite panned out. Instead, no matter how hard I tried to draw a firm line in the sand, I've always felt on the edge of that line, one misstep away from becoming him. Donnie.
It wasn't until after Donnie died that I could admit how much of him I saw in myself.
There are times when I've been afraid to die because I'm so afraid to live. I've called my mom at 2AM warning her that this was the last stop on my ride, that I just can't take it anymore. Friends have seen cuts on my wrists and scars on my legs. Dieticians know about the binging and purging. Self-loathing has leaked out of the most secure vaults, perhaps on purpose.
But I also realized that by spending his life slowly killing himself, Donnie had given me room to create my own smaller crises -- and pull myself out of them. Compared to Donnie's faults, my own seemed insignificant. After all, there was always someone I most definitely was not, and I was safe there, the low voltage version of insanity. Once my brother died, that all changed. Looking at Donnie in his coffin, all the desperate moments of my own self-destruction rushed through my mind like an old VHS on fast forward.
* * *
The day of the funeral was also my nephew's 16th birthday. "How could you?" I've asked Donnie throughout the years, in my mind, and I asked him one more time that day. "Why? For what?"
The only thing we know about Donnie's death is that he had been in the hospital the night before and sometime during his stay removed his I.V. and walked out. In the morning, his neighbor stopped by to visit him and discovered his lifeless body in a chair. Because toxicology reports are not required for people who die from "natural causes" (no matter their age), we'll never know what exactly happened -- his heart stopped, but why? What time? Did he rumble like a train? Did his body fight to live?
But I don't really need a toxicology report to explain my brother's passing. At this point, it's just a formality. I'm not sure I'll ever come to terms with the fact that Donnie is gone or how he went. I always thought I didn't care whether he was alive or not. Then he died, and I saw that a series of self-destructive acts could actually lead to complete self-destruction.
This was what he had kept me safe from knowing all these years. And the resentment I felt after he died was, I think, about distancing myself from that truth just a little longer. But now that I see it, that it is a very real option to end up in a coffin at 49, I can choose the alternative -- to live through my lows, to not let them take over.
Somehow realizing that made it easier to finally mourn my brother. I could even feel something close to love for him -- not because he was some great guy in my life, but because if I can love him, just love him, then we are not the same. Then I am still here, making the choices he didn't.
Need help? In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
I give you a lot of credit for exposing yourself as you did in the article. Like my Dad, Donnie lived selfishly. People can blame it on a chemical imbalance or just plain stupidity. Regardless, when a family member pushes away those who love them, it impacts all immediate family members differently. Despite all the negative effects, there is always a silver lining which you pointed out clearly - living your life to be better than him. Its been 8 months since my Dad died and I still struggle with identifying my feelings towards him. The one thing I am clear on is that even though I struggle with my own demons (most of which I blame on his actions, or lack of, as a father), I know exatcly what I don't want to end up like and battle with my similarities to him. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and even though you've felt like you've reached the end sometimes, you have the strength inside of you to move forward. Continue to be the amazing person you are!!!
No, I do not want to judge Donnie or the rest of your family. Maybe you all did go for counseling (yes, even you as a baby) when he was still at home. All I know is that we all fit into a system and there is a benefit of talking and yelling and crying and laughing together that makes a major difference.
I now work with business organizations to help diminish conflict and find better ways to collaborate. It is better than working one-one and leaving out the power of the group talking and yes, arguing together.
Dara, thank you for including the picture of that darling little boy filled with promise. Somehow what you are learning thorugh your grief will make a difference.
Sylvia Lafair author "Don't Bring It to Work: Breaking the Family Patterns that Limit Success"
The author describes her Dad as a victim, her Mom as sympathetic ear for her late night phone calls, and her youngest brother as a well-adjusted, fine young man. To clearly imply, in the wake of this tragedy, that they would have discovered that "there is a benefit" to paying people like you is disgraceful. And to use this tragedy to sell a book is...beyond words.
Sylvia
I have a drug-addict mother and sister that I wish more than anything that they could be the people I want them to be but I know now that that will NEVER happen, much to my regret. I struggle everday with should I just suck it up just so I can be part of the family and turn a "blind eye" to their bad behavior? There is not a right answer and there is not a wrong answer to this question. Ulitmately I guess I just want to say thank you for such a inspirational story and thank you for all the people who have responded with their stories. May everyone who struggles with this find hope in that tomorrow is a new day!
Bless you on your journey and I wish you success.
Just can say I'm sorry.
The worst part of his loss is the still constant sense of "if he were here, he would be..." I see someone in passing who resembles him and my eyes well up. I sit at dinner with my grown children, and think how much he would enjoy them and their lively stories. He was so bright and life held such promise. I know he would have brought something amazing to the world.
Time does ease the pain and anger. My brother was far from perfect and he made some bad choices that contributed to his death. But he was mine and I loved him. I miss him.
I grew up saying "The only normal people are the one's you don't know very well" because it's entirely true. We are surrounded by the walking wounded. The cashier at the store, the neighbor who always seems to have a smile, the guy who cuts the grass, the gal who does your hair...all walking wounded. I've learned from dealing with my own hidden family drama and heartache to try to be kind to those around me, because God only knows how bad they too are hurting.
My late brothers' children have had to deal with how he died and what he put them through, what he put himself through. It is a lose/lose.
I just didn't want what I wrote prior to come off as a poor brother There is a lot of help out there and it is ultimately up to the addict to get it. Sobriety and making peace with ones' past is on their shoulders alone. We can walk beside them, but we can't walk the path for them.