A Day In The Life

My brother died on Friday. His fourth attempt to take his own life was finally successful. My sister and I had talked many times over the years about how we understood his wish to leave. We knew each time he recovered that it was only a question of time until he would once again become dissatisfied with his life. He suffered a traumatic brain injury in his 20’s, but had recovered and married and had a job. Then something changed, depression, the TBI causing changes in his brain 20 years later. He was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder. His marriage fell apart, he couldn’t keep a job. This latest round of medication seemed to work, he had finally found people who were helping him, who found him a nice place to live. Then once again the tides shifted, the time between those tides becoming shorter and shorter over the last 20 years.

My brother and I have had sporadic contact over the years. Years ago before we realized the extent of his mental issues we tried to reason with him, to help. That became impossible after a time. We have not lived near each other for many years, the last time I saw him was about 10 years ago. At that time his demeanor was more docile, I knew to stay away from topics that could set him off, this way keeping everything on an even keel.

My reaction to his death has been harder than I imagined. Even though I knew this would be how it would end, that it seemed inevitable. I reasoned that if I understood it intellectually, the whys, the reasons, somehow I thought that would make it less emotional. I thought having had so little contact with him over the years would bring a disconnect of emotion, make the loss less of a loss. What I failed to realize is that though the years may have separated us, and his mental state put a wedge between us, we were still connected in a very visceral way. There is a connection that runs deep, deeper than I had imagined, that has made the loss more profound than I thought it would be. Perhaps it is tied up with the sadness of knowing how unhappy his life was, how troubled he was. That in itself brings sadness.  Add to that the shared history of childhood, of teen years, the connection of just being siblings. I cry for the loss of the life he did not have, could not have. I cry to think of his struggles. For his mental state leaving him unable to find his way, making him incapable of doing so.

I hope he is at peace now, free from the demons and the ongoing arguments he perseverated over in his own head. I am glad my sister was with him when he died, that perhaps he in some way knew he was not alone at the end. I will try to remember who he was before his brain turned on him. Remember the boy who learned to fly an airplane in his teens, who loved all things having to do with fish and the sea, who sat reading the World Book Encyclopedia because he thought it was interesting. For the double pat he would always give me on the back when he hugged me good bye, and told me “take care” And to hold onto what would be his parting sentiment in the card he sent me last month thanking me for a gift card I sent him.