It will be two days until the Day my brother died. Some people may not believe it but he visited me. I was sleeping and I could smell his cologne and I felt like somebody was there and I was comforted in my grief. Kind a like when your dog comes back after he dies and you can feel him curling up next to you in the bed and you smell their scent and you swear that they’re there but of course they’re not. This is this is the same thing that happened to me two nights ago. I told him I loved him and went to sleep. I guess this was doing the twilight before you fall asleep. I miss him. I’m going to keep on missing him and I guess I’m going to keep on crying, but my heart aches less and my mind is not all there right now. I’m very anxious and I know this is the reason why, I miss him.
My brother died last year and although this hasn’t been on my mind all the time, it has been wrecking havoc with my subconscious mind. Depression, anxiety, anger and lots of crying.
At first, I didn’t know why I had slowed down, but it wasn’t hard to figure out why because his picture hangs in my living room. April 16, 2016. It marks the first whole year I’ve lived without his calling, the kidding around, the laughter and teasing. He was the best brother a person could have. He wasn’t perfect, but he took time with me. When I felt ignored growing up, I can remember him taking the time out of his play time, to teach me how to hold a bat and play baseball. I sucked, but that didn’t matter. He took time with me and showed me some attention when my other siblings were busy or teasing me for being the baby of the family. He never did that to me and that is one of the reasons I’ll miss him so much. He loved me and told me all the time.
I’m not back to where I was before March hit, but I’m getting there. My mother still can’t talk about him for long periods of time. He was her first born. I can’t imagine what she’s going through, although she did say she had her days earlier than mine. Without actually saying what ‘those’ days were about.
It’s still cold and it feels like the real spring will never get here. I wonder if I’ll go through this every year. I don’t like marking deaths of people, I feel it’s morbid. But my mind had other things planned for me. And I don’t appreciate it.
Someone told me and everyone is telling me to just ‘remember the good times’. That works for a while. But I guess I’ll always miss him, I don’t think that will ever leave.
This is the first family death where I was stable. My sister, my grandmother and my best friend passed when my meds weren’t together and every day was zombie day. The last time I was this stable, my favorite uncle died and it threw me off balance and landed me back in never-never land for years.
I can see that I’m much stronger than I use to be. I’m holding things down and looking forwards to things and although life isn’t perfect, what is?
So much has happened this past year. It feels cursed. From my brother’s death to the most recent ones. Things are just a bit numb and I’m going through the FIRST stages.
First, birthday after his death. First Thanksgiving without him. First Christmas and New Years. Next year it will continue until April 17, the first anniversary of his death.
I don’t like to mark deaths as an occasion. Death shouldn’t be celebrated in my opinion. I miss my brother and I can remember my father coming into the living room every anniversary of his father’s death and sitting there with his head down, sighing all day long. It seemed a waste to me. He wouldn’t talk, just sigh and there was nothing you could do to move him.
I refuse to do that. For me, the dead take care of the dead and the living take care of the living. Not to say that I will miss him any less.
I have to move forwards and continue to do so always. I do have some depression, just not as deep. Thank you meds and therapy for that blessing.
That’s all I have for now.
I’ve often wondered why some people take so long to get on with their lives after someone dies. Why they create these “mini” shrines to the person in their houses and visit the person’s grave year after year on the day of their death like it’s a national holiday or something.
I don’t want to remember the day you died! I want to remember your life. I want to talk about you and have the memories of our conversations and love for each other stay with me every day.
In the beginning, my mom wouldn’t mention my brother because she was afraid it would upset me. While I was doing the same thing for her; afraid I would upset her. Thanks to my therapist, I was able to see this and we started talking. It feels good to talk about my brother.
He was a caring and charismatic man. He loved life, a little too much. He was no saint, but he tried. My father did a serious number on him mentally and physically and it wasn’t until maybe 5 years ago that he felt comfortable enough to tell me about it.
That’s a long fucking time! My father was a complete dick. And I don’t believe in that, don’t speak ill of the dead crap. If you were a dick in life, death doesn’t absolve you of all the crap you did and left behind.
My brother never hurt anyone but himself. He was ADHD before they had a name for it, so it was hard. He was in denial about his mental illness, so he self-medicated. Which is something my family has done on both my mother’s and father’s side of my family. Which leads me to believe there was a lot of undiagnosed mental illness. Plus being black back in the 40’s and 50’s wasn’t a blast in the USA.
It’s hard to look at his picture at times. And sometimes I stare at it and caress it and move on from there. My mom says sometimes she hits it. I guess that’s the anger portion. He should have taken better care of himself. And everything was falling into place, he just needed a little more patience. Hard for someone who was in chronic pain, depressed, afraid of therapy and facing their first operation. He was very sick.
In a way, I’m glad he doesn’t have to live through my mother’s passing. Whenever that takes place. He simply wasn’t strong enough, he took my father’s and my sister’s death hard. He would still cry over my sister’s death. I know he would have offed himself after my mother died. He told me so.
I like the way they express ‘condolences’ in Finland. “I take part in your grief”. Makes you feel like the person truly understands what you’re going thru and is there for you. But as my friend said, after awhile they are all platitudes.
Not to put them down, but what do you REALLY say to someone who has lost someone? Secretly, you feel sorry for them, but you can’t go up and say, “I feel sorry for you man, just glad it wasn’t my mom.” So you say, “sorry for your loss” etc. etc. and run home and hug your family and call your relatives.
Understandable. Grief is a personal thing. It takes time and patience and no obsessing. Or else you’re just as dead as the person you’re grieving for in the first place. Feel the pain is what I say. But reliving it every year by visiting the grave, my god how depressing. Dredging up those feelings again.
I am living and working with my issues and diverting my attention away from my health issues with writing and hopefully reading the graphic novel series SANDMAN. While finishing my short story.
Day by day and moment by moment. I can’t look further than that, I’d become overwhelmed.
Thank God for my Meds.
I feel so new with this physical illness. You can’t see pain with the naked eye, but you can see it’s effects. Kinda like mental illness. So actually, I should be able to get an understanding on how to live with this shit. Maybe.
With Sjogren’s, like BiPolar, you really never know when an episode is gonna hit, but you can kinda see or know the signs it’s coming.
I’ve got BiPolar’s signals down, for me. I can tell when certain behaviors are leading up to an upswing or a downward spiral. And I will try to head it off with meds or self talk etc. Using my skill set here.
With Sjogren’s, it’s all so new. I have a journal of daily activities. I know if I do too much, I will pay for it later or the next day. But, HOW MUCH IS TOO MUCH ?
I slowly push the limits, but I fear a flare up, so I just do nothing. I hate the pain all over my body. My knees, my back, my hips. I’m sore all over and even laying down hurts.
So I take it easy.
Which leaves me without a life; I fear pain, depression, people, myself, loneliness, love. So many things, it’s not like a phobia, but more like a general fear of everything. Without being specific, maybe its paranoia, but I don’t think so. I don’t think anything is out to get me, so maybe it’s anxiety.
I’m just so tired of illness. No matter what the brand. I’ve been sick with something ever since I was born. Wearing leg braces as a toddler, constant bouts with tonsillitis. Depression.
I see myself dying alone and it scares me. The people I love are either growing up or getting older and as the youngest child, I fear being left behind. Sick and alone. No one knowing I’m dead until the stench in my apartment reaches the street. As the unpaid bills pile up in the mailbox and the neighbors begin to ‘wonder’.
Over 20 years of fighting BiPolar has left me tired and alone. I avoided relationships because I didn’t trust my judgement and I felt I would attract someone who would abuse me. The one time I tried, this came true. Not physical abuse, although there were time it came close, but verbal, emotional and mental abuse.
So, proving myself right. I stayed alone. Isolated and trying to get some sanity back.
When I finally got on an even keel, the bottom dropped out again with the thyroid and the Sjogren’s.
Something new to experience. I’m too old for this.
I don’t know if I have the fight of a 20 year old to battle and come out, O.K. anymore.
But something inside of me, keeps me moving forwards. Although I don’t know why or what it is I’m moving towards.
How come the most horrible moments of our lives come back to us in flashbacks. Funerals, rapes, abuse. Why can’t we get moments when we were truly happy, just suddenly burst thru our brain and put a smile on our faces once again.
I find myself doing a slide show of the day I put my dog down. My body grows heavy, my eyes tear up and my heart aches again. It keeps coming back. I was on Youtube looking at a short film on Rik Mayall’s funeral. Watching his friends and family carry his coffin and all I could think was, ‘he’s in there’. A man who made me laugh so much and smile. And now, no more.
I began fearing for others who bring moments of joy into my life. Quite selfish when you consider it, worried for my own happiness. Not for the ones they leave behind. But there are so few moments of true happiness in my life, I treasure anyone who offers me that blessed distraction. I live for the distractions. In between the pieces of gray.
Things are flat right now, even keel. No real depression, no real mania. Just waiting for the oncoming storm, which will be August. So much up in the air, I don’t like ‘maybe’s’. I like ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Too much gray in my life.
Fewer flashbacks would be nice too. It’s only been a year since Chianna died. Its hard to believe she was ever here. But I have memories, which grow cloudier each day. I can still smell her. And when I do, I inhale deeply and smile. My baby. So scared during those last few moments without me. No more dogs. I’m gonna miss that part of my life.
Maybe something else will come along and love me, one day.
Before my illness took form. My biggest fear was of dieing. I didn’t want things to end. I didn’t want to miss out on new movies and music in the future. There were things I wanted to still do.
Once depression and BiPolar hit; death seemed welcoming. I mean, who wants to live like this? No joy, no hope and a mind that’s gone. It took me years of therapy, to not see death as a solution. Good meds + good therapist = some form of stability.
I’ve been described as a boat on the sea. One wave will tip me one way and almost make me sink. A very delicate balance. That about sums it up for my mental state.
My fear is no longer death. It’s losing what little sanity I have left. When I first started therapy, I was in a group of women who were all going thru menopause. I was in my late 20’s. Interesting mix.
I had an aunt who went thru menopause and ended up inpatient… for life. But that was waaaaay back then, she really would be a great great aunt or something. I sometimes think that my fate is commitment.
Part of me welcomes the security and safety of being institutionalized. Then I realize, I can’t just walk out when I want too. I was in a rehab hospital for my knee surgeries. I enjoyed it. I liked the low expectation of the people around you. The reduced stress and predictability. I felt safe.. I guess that’s the key, safe.
I watch the news and think, ‘see that’s why I don’t go out’. Sometimes I think there is no safe situation. It’s a state of mind, not an actual existence.
I’m afraid I will go thru menopause and lose all I have worked so damn hard to achieve. This state of stability, no matter how momentary, my independence and my creative mind.
There’s also the fear of my mother dieing and me following suit by killing myself. I don’t know what I’ll do when the time comes. And it scares me.