It’s getting to the point

where I’m no fun any more.  I am sorry.  Some­times it hurts so badly I must cry out loud.  I am lonely.

This week has been hec­tic, what with me temp­ing at my apart­ment office, Boy Scouts and flag foot­ball start­ing up, and the rumor mill run­ning me ragged. I want to address this last bit really quick, since there are peo­ple who are appar­ently very con­cerned about my busi­ness. Maybe they’ll bother to check this blog, but even if not, I need to vent a bit of frustration.

I love my brother very much. Any­one who knows me at all gets that. I put up with a lot of drama from the peo­ple he asso­ci­ated with through­out his life. I still am. I love my neices and nephew. They’re all I have left of him  So, to you punks out there, don’t tell me what I believe, whether I love him, how I think of him, or that I “think the worst of him.” What I think of my brother is that I love him and he is dead. And I have a hard time believ­ing that last one.  He unfor­tu­nately made some very bad choices, and some of those were the peo­ple he asso­ci­ated with.  I wish I could ask him what is going on with all of this, how to fix it, but I can’t.  I’m pretty sure if he’d had those answers, he’d be alive right now himself.

Right now I’m not sure if some­one is just hate­fully, spite­fully try­ing to kick me when I’m down, or sin­cerely think they are hon­or­ing my brother by fill­ing me in about cir­cum­stances sur­round­ing his death. I’ve been told a lot of things, and some of them HAVE to be lies, because there are direct con­tra­dic­tions. Yes, I do want answers, but I wish peo­ple would under­stand that his hell didn’t die with him.  I guess because I was the clos­est per­son to him, I inherit it. I try to live with see­ing his widow obvi­ously dat­ing already, and not return­ing my phone calls, as best as I can.  That doesn’t mean I’m happy with it.  It means I don’t know what to do!

If I have to out­line my grief, my thoughts on every­thing, to prove I loved him, well, I’m going to meet­ings at least once a week, some­times twice, to deal with my grief.  I can’t hear reg­u­lar turns of phrase like “I’ll give him enough rope to hang him­self” or see some­thing as stu­pid as Bone Thugz-N-Harmony with­out hyper­ven­ti­lat­ing.  My only sib­ling, the only per­son who grew up with me, is miss­ing from my daily life.  I have to get out of bed every morn­ing and try not to lash out at every­one because the barely con­tained anger at oth­ers — who hold the key to the only peo­ple alive with his DNA in them– spills over onto any­one in range.

I need to learn how to set up bound­aries to pro­tect myself.  I was told that last time at group.  But I des­per­ately want to under­stand.  I can’t even fig­ure out what is right to do.  My heart is sick, my soul is bat­tered, and I can’t think what else to do but vent.

Suite: Judy Blue Eyes