five years on
February 13, 2012

Five years ago this morning, my little brother, desperate for relief from the crippling depression that had been ruining his life for a decade, drove down a quiet country road, pulled onto the shoulder, put a gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

That .357 blew one hell of a hole in my family, and we aren't anywhere close to over it yet.

I spent a shitty, mostly sleepless night, and a weepy morning. No gut-wrenching sobs, but a persistent teariness that I coudn't shake. My good old friend D picked me up at lunch and took me out, which helped me perk up a little, but you know a call to my mom is absolutely necessary on this sad occasion, so I'm gonna be back in the depths once more.

I'm still mad at him. For what he did to Mom and Dad, and for cheating me out of the one solace I would cling to when my own depression overtook me--my own option to commit suicide if I just couldn't take it anymore. I feel like he robbed me, because after his exit, there is no way in hell I could ever take the same way out while my parents are living--or even after, because it would destroy my one nephew who is still grief-stricken over his uncle.

And yet--I'm not, really. I am probably in a better position to understand his actions than anyone else in the family, and I know it wasn't his fault.