My oldest brother died nine years ago. He was eleven years older than me, and was living with his father at the time: we were half-brothers. I was actually only eleven when it happened, and when I found out all I felt was shock. That lasted until a good few weeks after the funeral.
Mum had nine kids with three different men, and each of us reacted differently to the news that our oldest brother killed himself. He had jumped off a pedestrian bridge over the highway in his local town, and unfortunately the fall wasn’t enough to kill him. He was hit by a truck soon after.
I know how much it hurts to lose a sibling to suicide, and so do my other siblings, but that hasn’t stopped us. Before my oldest brother, another half-brother of mine attempted suicide after he found out my father was sexting his girlfriend. He jumped off of a grain shed next to our house, but he survived. My older sister also had a plan to kill herself on a school trip, and had personalised suicide notes on her laptop. She was stopped by her teachers, thankfully enough. I barely scratched the surface of it here, but our lives haven’t been easy in so many ways.