I just discovered this site, and as I read the many submissions that resonated with my experience, I succumbed to the pain that is there all of the time for my 30 year old, wonderful, caring brother.
He took his life in October. Used a rope and ended it all on a tree in my parents’ backyard. He was all alone, which I think is the most painful part of this entire story for me. My dad found him, and my mom said she swore she saw dried tears on his cheeks as he lay in the grass after they cut him down. As weird as it sounds, I almost wish I was with him, comforting him during this terrible and tragic glitch in time.
He had been struggling for quite some time with chronic headaches. Fast forward through the struggles of a couple drug-induced manic episodes, working with a poor mental health system, a couple suicide attempts, seeking help from COUNTLESS doctors for headaches or anything at all (failure on all counts, it seems), and here we are. We lost the battle.
I often think of his suicide like battling cancer. For nearly a year and a half, he talked of suicide and we worked SO hard to keep him alive, to keep him healthy. He knew he was loved. He wanted to get better. He had so much potential. It’s almost strange to me how unprepared I was to lose him, since he had basically been trying to warn us for so long. Nobody can comprehend the severity of this kind of tragedy until it is experienced.
The permanent absence of his laugh, of his smile, of my favorite arm to hold, is hurtful, painful, and just plain sad. I’m 25, and I know that with time, the grief of loss will change and wane, but it will always be a terrible void. It will always be hard.