What happens when your best friend's brother kills himself? How do you cope with the situation, when even the word cope seems cold and unforgiving? Comfort is not something that I'm good at. I have never been somebody who shows emotions that could be potentially embarrassing. Friends do not cry on my bony shoulders. I have a thick blanket of cynicism and sarcasm that muffles the emotions I show to the world. Underneath is a different story. But what does this say about me? My best friend's brother has just died – is dead- and I can still take everything and make it about me.
I am selfish.
But this is not my story.
She swings her long hazel hair over her shoulders, and looks into the mirror. Her pale skin is dotted with ginger freckles that make her seem warmer and more childlike. Her eyes, the colour of her hair, are carefully examining the reflection in the mirror. Her jeans, shirt, sweater, bag, shoes, are all what upper-middle class white suburban girls could hope for. She wonders briefly if she looks good because she blindly follows trends, or if she has enough individuality to select wrappings that reflect who she is. Then the thought disappears and she is out the door.
Climbing into her mother's car, she smiles and selects a station on the radio that plays rock music form the 60's. She knows all the words. But the words brother, suicide, Shawn, never cross her lips.
Her mother's face is sad, and she suspects it will be that way for the rest of her life. Her mother smiles, smoothes her daughter's hair so, so carefully, backs out of the driveway and drives to the movie theatre. Along the way, they chat of inconsequential things, the weather, what movie she will watch, her friend who she has not seen in months. They are completely normal.
She jumps out of the car, walks up the stairs to the theatre, pauses, turns and waves to her mother. She meets her friend at the door and they walk in together. Her friend hugs her, they laugh and exclaim over differences. You're taller than me now. Your hair is so long! I love your bag.
Her friend is slim, small, and intelligent looking. She looks capable, but awkwardly intense. She is somebody who is always thinking. Did I smell bad when she hugged me? Her clothes are so expensive. That shirt costs more than my entire outfit. How is she? She never talks about him. Should I mention it? I never know what to say. The black-haired girl strides into the viewing room, her taller friend walking beside her.
There are so many things I want to say. I want to tell her I understand – but I can't, not really. But I do understand that there is no timeline to grief.
Grief is too quiet a word. Mourn is a better one. Mourn. The word itself sounds like a wail. I don't know why you never talk about him, and it worries me. But I'm afraid of opening a box best left sealed. I want you to heal, but I don't know which door to choose. And that worries me. Talking about it is good. But it is your brother, his life, and how it ended. Not something that can be categorised by any self-help book. Maybe you need to be quiet, and forget. Maybe you need to be stirred up, and storm it out. I don't know when the sunrise is, or when the rain will end. Maybe there will always be a drizzle, even when the day should be bright. That, too, also worries me.
I don't know anything. Worse, I'm too afraid to try.
I, I, I.
That word repeats itself, stamping across the page.
What I can say is this, softly, quietly, in ways that you will never hear unless you listen very carefully. It is in the way I make sure your stuffed animals are nearby, even though you don't need them. In the way I try to be happy around you, so that you will be too. In the way that I remember every June. In the way that I can wonder how only one month, two months, half a year, a year has passed by.
This is not a story. These are lives, intertwined, that stretch forward reaching for a purpose that is unfathomable. You record emotions on a page, pretty words that can never capture everything in life. Meanings will slip though your net. Words will be left unsaid.
I will say it here, though I say it lightly many times when we are together. I love you. I love your family. I wish I had gotten to know your brother. More, I wish you had him to tease you on your first date, your graduation, your marriage, when your baby will be born. The world is stupid, ugly. He was stupid, and selfish, and kind, and brave and good. I hope that one day you can talk to me about it. It- his death, and the way he should be living.