05 July, 2013

(a chaotic missive from the one who lived)

How do I begin? I honestly have no idea, so I suppose I'll do stream-of-consciousness and see where it takes me. I apologize in advance for the scattered thoughts.

On Sunday, my baby brother died. No. Took his own life. That morning will always be seared into my brain, and my usually shitty memory won't ever let it go. I remember what I was thinking on the drive home from work that morning. I was thinking about taking him out for that beer I owed him for his 21st birthday, back in January, once I received my permanent work schedule.


(1 hour, 16 minutes later)


A conversation between a bard and a writer:

Bard: I like what you have so far. You can read the one I put up for Nate .... When you're ready. Its "My Immortal"
Writer: I can't. I'm mentally blocked. I tried continuing, but all that would come out was sdhga gsigh sig...gibberish. I physically cannot write about it....

Bard: Don't force it. Dy, it took me fourteen years to write about my son. I stupidly made two of the main chars [in the zombie book] dealing with the loss of a son and a friends suicide. You KNOW how much I avoid that book. Fuck, horror is my genre. And I'm a cynic And I'm writing romance and erotica! It'll flow when it's time.

Writer: Not good enough.

Bard: You can't force it. It will happen when you are ready. Sitting around and talking yourself into believing you can't write it before you've even tried won't help either. /toughlove You are the best writer I know, and I believe in you. You're in pain right now. It's still very new.

Writer: I think I'm about to round the corner to rage real soon. I can feel it bubbling up within me.

Bard: That's part of grieving. A very normal part of it. Embrace it. But don't hurt yourself.

Writer: It's shades of red and orange, a hulking juggernaut proud to exist, fully confident in its purpose. There is a smell it doesn't recognize in the air, and it stirs feelings of remorse, regret, pain, grief, agony, terror. It knows that these feelings are gateway feelings. Not in the typical sense, in that they lead to other emotions, but a gateway to freedom. It has never seen the outside world, but it lurks, hungry. When it rounds the last corner and discovers the source of these feelings, it will throw its head back into the sky and scream a terrible, soul-rending scream.

Bard: Put THAT into the blog, Dy. That's a perfectly real and honest portrayal of grief. And beautiful

Writer: The thing is that since it has never seen the outside world before, I am afraid of what I will say and do. There is a rage inside of me I have not known, and it is waiting for the tiniest bump in the road, the slightest inconvenience. What bridges will I burn?

Bard: You ok?

Writer: No. Not even a little. I feel the same sense of dread that I would imagine those unable to leave the path of an oncoming storm feel, the quiet before the sound and the fury incarnate.

Bard: No one will blame you for acting out at a time like this. No one that really cares. Remember, I threw a Christmas tree through a window once. I get it. I understand. Yell at me if you want to. I am here. If you need me. Always. I appreciate your concern, but I am your friend, and I care. Just know I'm here if you need me, okay? For anything. To vent to, to edit your writing, to share beautiful memories, or just someone to talk nonsense with to get your mind off of it. I wish I could do so much to help you and lend support. I'll do whatever I can from 500 miles away. Okay? *big hug*

Writer: And just like that, it's rerouted down another corridor. A temporary standoff. Not much, but something.


(1 hour, 4 minutes later)


I am empty. Drained. I know not how to deal. I begin to think of fairness and what's "right," as if I can will my desires into being simply because I know what is the best universal course of action. The earth still turns and the sun still races across the sky. Lives are still lived and things don't care. I am left to deal with all of my angst and all of the my complex emotions that come with the suicide of my brother. (I have spent so much time writing fiction lately that it doesn't matter how many times I write those last five words, they, too, seem like fiction to me.)


(12 minutes later)


I just don't know. I haven't cried all that much, and I worry that I'll be driving or working at one or the other in-home direct care jobs I have when it hits me, and then I'll be unable to function. What do I say at that point? What do I do? I tried reading a blog authored by someone who went through this also, but the words don't seem to have any relevance to my life and my situation. I just haven't found any way to connect to what she's writing. Part of me thinks it'll come in time. Part of me thinks it never will. Part of me just shut itself off from thinking.

I am lost, confused, sad and angry that I'm not more sad and angry.

I was originally going to put Lawn Gods and all other projects on an indefinite hiatus, but then I realized that I shouldn't do that. I'm going to need to keep busy. However, I will take the rest of this week off, and we'll see where I am as far as continuing the story of Jim and Diego on Monday.


  1. <3


    All the hugs, all the words in the world aren't enough. I'm here.

  2. Sweetheart, I love you and am with you every step of the way, even if we have no idea where those steps will take you/us from one moment to the next. Always.