Big Brother
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
My oldest brother: His face was less troubled than I’d ever seen, his eyes held less aggression. I wondered why he’d called me over: Being eight years older than me and six years older than Alex, Justin had never been the role model we needed. As if he were upset that his place between our parents had been disrupted when we came along. I guess six years old is an impressionable age; maybe it had just hit him the wrong way.
Or maybe it was his nature.
But this day, in a place I can’t recall, the person viewing me as equal had replaced the ever-dominant egotist I’d come to accept. Fully grown at 6’1’’, I was a good five inches and 50 lbs his senior. Now, only age made him my ‘big’ brother.
Then he spoke: “Brandon. I’m sorry for being an asshole. I know I treated you… I know I wasn’t good to you. But know it wasn’t your fault. It’s because I was unhappy. And I want that to change. I was hoping that we could be friends.”
Nothing could have prepared me. All this time, he’d never admitted to being wrong about anything. Now he was accepting not only responsibility for his actions, but the feelings behind them?
I searched for a lie on his face and found none. I thought of ulterior motives, of how he could be trying to use this to his advantage. After being away and out of contact for almost 10 years, I couldn’t think of any.
He was just sorry.
Alex and I used to talk about ganging up on Justin, about taking him down once and for all. I was always too scared. One time they had gotten into a fight, and all I could do was stand in the hall and listen, watching as Justin threw Alex out of our bedroom and against the wall, shattering the thermostat, breaking his nose. I saw the blood, saw Alex, and watched Justin storm up as if inviting me to try.
Now he was asking me to forgive.
And I did.
I shook his hand, smiled. I gave him a hug, which I had done only four or five times before, always at our parents’ request. It felt good. It felt like closure.
Then I heard a truck. I felt a draft of wind, and cold air moving over my skin. The image of my brother faded, and I felt my eyes go black. I opened them again to see my bed, my ceiling, and my room.
The dream had ended: Justin was still dead, killed by his own hand nearly 10 years ago.
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I was touched by the poignancy of this article, touched in a way that only other survivors of a suicide can feel. I was proud that one of us came out of the closet with a courage that will help to heal us all.
At the time of my son’s suicide, I was amazed at the number of people who came to me to share tears for their mother’s or brother’s or other family member’s choice to end their own lives. They clung to me and sobbed the melting glacier of tears they have been choking on for years.
Since 2004, the suicide rate for children as young as ten through twenty-five has risen 8.2%, the greatest leap since we have been keeping records. It is suspected that many suicides , especially overdoses, go unreported as such to protect the family from…..from what? What is it that keeps us from speaking of a suicide in the family? What is that drives a young person to that permanent solution to the stresses and heartaches of a passing adolescence?
Could it be that as parents, friends, and loved ones, we fear it is our expectations and values that tie the knot. Perhaps we fear our drumming of success; the march from the gifted program onto the Dean’s list and into your cubicle and Lexus before
you know who you are is
the hoofbeat of the riderless horse. The hurried child’s hurried life.
— Connecticut Yankee · Oct 12, 06:34 PM · #
amazing…inspired…
don’t stop writing!
— Art Dog · Feb 5, 01:41 PM · #
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