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For the last six years, I've been posting once a year about the anniversary of my brother Scotty's death. For those just tuning in, he was killed in a car accident when I was just barely sixteen. Originally, I posted on the actual day, but I have been slipping later and later into the year for the last few times. I think I almost always write something on the day, but can't finish it. I lack direction.. maybe it's because I have other outlets for what I'm thinking about now. Everything is totally different now than it was ten years ago--I don't live in the same house, with the same people, or do the same things.. and yet I still have a gaping hole in my life. Your siblings are genetically the closest link you have on the planet, and yet, no one ever realizes how much that link means until it's gone.
Ten is a pretty important milestone for me. I don't know why it's been such a huge, looming number in my head, but I have been actively dreading it for at least three years. I hid how strongly I was affected by this for many years, and I still can't talk about it in real life all that well, although I do try. It is, quite simply, the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and ten years later, I will find myself crying out of the blue in the middle of the day, or at night before I go to sleep.
It was a whim that caused me to start writing something every year--I guess I just wanted to feel closer to him. To my surprise, I found that it ultimately helped to force myself to organize my thoughts and put them down on (virtual) paper. I have said things in these yearly writings that I would never say out loud. They say that time heals all wounds, and buddy, let me tell you--that's total bullshit. Time heals nothing (thank you, Dr. Phil.)
But there comes a point when even the most helpful of therapeutic activities cause more hurt than they help. This will be the last year that I force myself to write. I can't keep it up for the rest of my life, so I might as well stop with the one that I've been dreading the most. It doesn't mean I think about it any less, or that I'm over it, or that I don't care anymore. I just can't keep it up anymore.
I miss you every day, Scotty. I always will.
Ten is a pretty important milestone for me. I don't know why it's been such a huge, looming number in my head, but I have been actively dreading it for at least three years. I hid how strongly I was affected by this for many years, and I still can't talk about it in real life all that well, although I do try. It is, quite simply, the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and ten years later, I will find myself crying out of the blue in the middle of the day, or at night before I go to sleep.
It was a whim that caused me to start writing something every year--I guess I just wanted to feel closer to him. To my surprise, I found that it ultimately helped to force myself to organize my thoughts and put them down on (virtual) paper. I have said things in these yearly writings that I would never say out loud. They say that time heals all wounds, and buddy, let me tell you--that's total bullshit. Time heals nothing (thank you, Dr. Phil.)
But there comes a point when even the most helpful of therapeutic activities cause more hurt than they help. This will be the last year that I force myself to write. I can't keep it up for the rest of my life, so I might as well stop with the one that I've been dreading the most. It doesn't mean I think about it any less, or that I'm over it, or that I don't care anymore. I just can't keep it up anymore.
I miss you every day, Scotty. I always will.
