Grief, man. It's messy. It's complicated. It's heartbreaking and sometimes simultaneously laughable. Or is that just me?
Backstory: My brother, Andrew, died in 2017. He was my person. Still is, really. He was 33 and honestly, given the hand he was dealt, that was an accomplishment. To say I miss him is an understatement. I see him in my dreams. I feel him in my bones.
I mentioned guilt in a previous post, and here I am again, battling the guilt. Guilt that in the 3 years since his death I still bury my head in a pillow and cry for him. 3 years that I have continued to play the voicemails on my phone just to hear his voice. 3 years that I have dreamed that maybe he's still here and it was all a joke. 3 years is enough time to heal, right? Negative, ghost writer.
What's my point here? Honestly, I don't know. Maybe it's to vent my heartbreak. Maybe it's to connect with others who grieve. Maybe it's to erase the stigma of mental health. Whatever it is, here we are.
My brother left me with a broken heart. He left me with the knowing that our mental health system is broken. Knowing that this system failed him and left us with the ashes to scatter. We must fix that shit.
But he also left me with a closer relationship with my oldest brother, Everett, who handily hung the sun and the moon. He left me with an unbreakable bond with his daughter, my niece, that I cherish. He left me with an understanding that I have to take care of my mental health for myself, my children and my husband. Mental health is just as critical as physical health, maybe even more so.
To those struggling, as I often do, you are not alone. Let's lean on each other. Let's talk about shit, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard.
But fuck, I sure do miss him.
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