...No words. That's how I keep feeling, what I keep saying. I have no words for what my life is at this moment--not a single feeling word in my entire counselor and teacher vocabulary can truly identify what I feel at this moment. What I've felt since that phone call.
A phone call meant to inform me that my little brother, my only brother, was dead. That word always looks wrong when I type it. Sounds so final and ugly when I use it in a sentence to explain why I was gone for a week from class and work. Your dog dies, a deer is on the side of the road, dead...but people...they "pass on" or "move on" or "go to a better place" or "get called home." But, what if that person, like my brother, didn't really believe in a higher power or in the idea of moving on? What if dead really is just dead? As ugly and final as it sounds, it's almost liberating to use the "truth" when talking to people, when labeling for myself what happened. He is dead. He is not coming back. Maybe he did move on, find peace, and now looks down on me...but, I don't know that for a fact...and neither does anyone who tells me that is what is happening. In fact, most of those people would say, on a different day, that an individual who believed, spiritually, what my brother believed or behaved in some of the ways in which he behaved would not deserve to "find peace" in their religious world. This makes me angry. But cynical and angry is not all that I feel.
I feel nostalgic. I feel disconnected. The Glenn I knew is so different from the Glenn so many people are discussing on Facebook. So much more complicated. So much more in pain. So many more parts than many of these people ever know existed. I guess that's how it is with siblings--you see them in all their glory and in all their shit. You see them at their best, their worst, and can see past the mask they put on for so many others. I miss the Glenn before life got complicated--the one who pretended he couldn't care less what others thought but felt rejection so deeply. The one who wouldn't say I love you, but instead would call me "Fat Man", the one who even though he didn't say it, I could feel the love and pride bleeding through him for our little sister and I. I wish I knew the Glenn everyone else who has met him in the past couple years knew--the protector, the bear hugger, the funny guy. But, I saw the Glenn behind that mask, the one who hurt so deeply from what he experienced during war that he was plagued by nightmares and a need to run away. I saw a Glenn who was lost, not sure what he needed or where to get it. And that makes me feel like a horrible person, a terrible sister.
I feel selfish. Maybe I could have reached out more to that hidden Glenn. Maybe I wouldn't feel so incomplete if he didn't die before we completely reconciled. Maybe I needed to just accept him for what he chose to show the world, instead of pushing for him to be "him." Perhaps I would've gotten more "Fat Man's" if I just let him run. But, then I wouldn't be his big sister, would I?
I feel jipped. I feel scared. One of my children will never have the opportunity to meet him and the other three will likely not remember him as anything more than a photo on the mantle and stories of a couple family trips. One thing that showed through his mask of late was his pride in being an uncle and his love for my girls, the twinkle in his eye when they would interact with him, and the sadness when that beard of his would make them a little nervous to go near him. He once spent nearly an hour on the sidewalk outside of a restaurant in Charleston, SC holding and rocking my youngest. I haven't seen him so content or proud in years...maybe never. I thought we had years, decades. I fully planned to do family trips and to have my kids watch his and our sister's future kids--because he would have them...just not for years. I just knew it. I feel so wrong. All these feelings are compounded every time I watch my girls play, watch them hug each other. Every time they fight or say mean things to one another. I can't imagine the possibility of them losing one another, but I can't stop my mind from going there. I can barely keep myself from reminding them to treat each other well and to never let a fight last over night between each other every single day.
Then, if possible, I feel nothing. I have no motivation, no drive. I stare at the computer for hours attempting to thank people for their concern and condolences or get a paper written for school. I try to feel something besides mild annoyance that I can't grieve at the moment when going through the motions of parenthood or when Aaron tries to interact with me or support me.
I know this is a ridiculous stream of consciousness, but I've been struggling for nearly two weeks trying to find words. Trying to say what is happening inside of me. And this doesn't do it justice. Doesn't do him justice. Doesn't do US justice.
I lost my brother. My best childhood friend. My protector and the thorn in my side. He died way too early for no clear reason. It's not fair. It is the most awful thing I have ever had to experience, yet, I feel like I'm not experiencing it. And I can't describe how it feels or what I'm thinking because I am feeling and thinking everything and nothing all at once. There aren't words for this, because words come from prior experiences. This experience is like nothing else. I lost a part of me--a part I can't even remember living without. I lost an integral building block of who and what I am. I lost a part of my identity and can never rebuild it. I, my children, lost days, weeks, months, years of interactions that would have contributed to who I am, they are. That is a pain that is indescribable.
**I know many other people are experiencing similar pain and loss. I do not want to take away for your pain, I was just trying to unpack mine. I can't even begin to describe the additional layer of pain I feel for my parents, my sister, my Grammy....those who called Glenn friend, or brother in arms, those who had him in their lives on a daily basis. My heart aches for all of you, for all of us.**