Life goes on.
Despite all feelings to the contrary, and my efforts to stay mired in rage, in this awful, hollow place, life does move forward and unwillingly, I must too.
Have discovered that grief is a lonely place - an entirely solitary journey. I assumed, before this terrible knowing, that it was shared experience. That those who also loved and lost my brother would feel the same way as I do: pent up with emotions for which no word is enough. Rage doesn't quite capture the intensity of my deepest heart. But it comes closer than any other mild, asinine attempt: anger, frustration, sadness.
And they do, my parents, feel this, they assure me. In moments other than mine, when they're not feeling all the rest. But they seem to be handling this with a dignity that I simply cannot muster, a grace that eludes me, even as I will myself to calm down, get a grip, deal.
I still, two months on, want to poke strangers in the street and hiss, "My brother is dead. He died. My brother died." And yet, when I tell people, new friends and those who hadn't heard and they express their shock and sympathy, I wave it off, embarrassed, saying, "It's ok, it's ok," and sort of laugh. Laugh, that my brother is dead and I don't know what to DO about it.
It's NOT ok. It will never be ok, that he is gone, his life unfinished, not even half-lived. It's NOT ok that the truth about the life he did lead comes now, after it's too late, futile, done. The "if onlys" wage battle in my head with the "it was destineds," and I exhaust myself, flitting back and forth between them.
If only we had known the breadth and depth of the soul-destroying troubles he knew, we might have been able to pull him from it. If only he had made different choices, if I had not been stubborn and closed my heart and my door to him when he was searching for safe habour, he might still be here. If only...
And yet, in the next breath, it seems, I believe that the demons that chased him were of his choosing, long before he took his first breath of this life - and to die so young was all part of some Master Plan the he'd mapped out for himself, for us. Somewhere in my mind, I'd been waiting for that phone call saying he was dead, for years. When it finally came, I was utterly unprepared. Knocked sideways, both in shock and an underlying guilt that because I'd thought it, I'd willed it - he'd willed it. It was destined...
Or something.
I seek vengeance and peace, in equal measure. Well, not so much equal - was hoping that the vengeance for a death I consider wrong and unnecessary and entirely preventable would bring me peace. Am hopeful that Andrew is at last, at peace. Whole. Free. I am most certainly not at peace, since his passing. Feel like I will never be entirely whole again.
Am slowly realizing that my quest for answers, for retribution, and for the chance to rage against the one who was supposed to love him the best will never be enough. This rage and waiting to spew venom at her has propelled me through this godawful period, yes. And perhaps this is my mind's way of grieving - that I thrash about searching in vain for someone to blame. Someone else to blame, in truth, as he is no longer here and cannot feel my wrath.
The thought of her, blithely tra-la-la ing through her days, having NOT been made accountable, having NOT been made to atone for lies and deceit too late uncovered....it eats at me. Claws at my heart and forces me to know that at my core, I too, am capable of great and frightening loathing.
The unfairness of it all, that he is entirely gone, that I am left to agonize about the why, to watch helplessly as my beloved parents struggle with an unfathomable loss while her life goes on...it is so painful. Without anger, all encompassing and frankly, a little bit crazy, I am left feeling...deflated. Bereft. Cast adrift in a sea of sadness and I almost cannot bear it.
"What good will it do?" A well-meaning, entirely valid question. What good will it do to unleash my anger and accusations and theories and blame onto her. Well, shit. It won't do any good. But it sure as Hell has got to feel better than this churning helplessness. And the whole point is to make her feel even an iota of this angst - and to have it haunt her forever, instead of me.
"It won't bring him back, you know." Really? Huh. And here, I thought...well, maybe... OF COURSE it won't bring him back. But maybe I will be able to take a breath without wondering what it felt like for him, knowing that he was drawing his last. Without wishing it were her, instead.
Today, realizing that it will likely do more harm than good to rail against her as publicly as I know how, I am feeling...alone and afraid. I've been waiting, waiting, waiting to place all of these feelings firmly onto someone else's shoulders and now that I know I probably won't, I'm afraid that the anger was just the ride to THIS place, where the real grief begins - and I don't want to be here.
I wish he still was.
