Truth Is...

How are you doing? A common phrase people ask with care and worry in their hearts after someone has lost a loved one. I say I am doing good. Better. Hanging in there. While that's not a complete lie it’s also not even close to the truth. 

The truth is...... 

I haven't been sleeping well. I can't be left alone in silence; I fill it with visions of his lifeless body. How quickly his skin yellowed, as we cried by the side of his hospital bed. His mouth a macabre contrast of dark brownish black from aspirating the sludge that filled his lungs.  I suppose only seeing it now when I write, is progress. That vision spent a long time haunting the darkness. Whether the darkness came from closing my eyes or the darkness that filled my bedroom at night it made no difference.  

The people I love the most in this world have reassured me, I made the right choice.  Some broken part of me is not as convinced as they are.  

Was there a selfish dark part of my soul that was just exhausted. Did it for merely the not wanting to be in this position next month or year. A seemingly endless cycle. Or maybe some decaying part of my soul that wanted relief from the not knowing, where he was, was he warm? Was he Safe? Was he in a tent or on the ground, was he alive? Was he hungry? Was he sad, does he know I love him?  Was he high would cross my mind sometimes, not as often as you would think though. He was living his own personal hell and getting by in the only way he knew.  

Was there an evil part of me that wanted relief from the random late-night calls while I am just about to fall asleep., Jolted from my peaceful world I have so meticulously curated for years, through sweat and tears to not include the demons that have consumed most of my bloodline. Sometimes the small relief of hospital staff letting me know he was admitted the night before, Then I could at least fall back into my slumber knowing he was at least warm and in the best possible care.  

 Some nights RJ just wanted me to deliver him food.  

I'll never forget one of those late nights. It left me screaming on the inside.  

A number I didn’t know called me, the mom in me answered it, 

A man on the other end said 'Hey Shannon can you order me some food.'

I said "I who is this? "

The person on the other line stated, “It’s RJ what are you talking about.”  

I replied, “I know what my brother sounds like, how did you get my number?” 

 The voice I didn't recognize said “Shannon really it’s RJ,” then he spoke of something random for a moment and small cracks of recognition came through.  It was my brother. My brother before.  

Hanging up the overwhelming realization kicked in. It was my brother. I had just never heard him talk when he was high. The air of his voice was so confident so clear in its direction. When RJ usually talked to me it was quiet, reserved and full of guilt. As if the words where heavy. That night I gut wrenchingly cried myself to sleep.  

My brother only truly felt confident when he was high. Totally sure of himself.  

I fear there will never be a day that goes by where I don't wish I had tried harder to save him. 

It's hard to find strength when its only me, I have to be strong for. 

I am seething with hatred for so many parts of this grief.  The hurt over the death of my 35-year-old little brother, makes me hate more than I think I ever have.  

I hate addiction,  

I hate my childhood, 

 I hate being an atheist,  

I hate that there wasn’t anything I could do to fix this.  

I hate that I had to let him go to save him.   

Truth is...

 I am afraid that I may never be able to forgive myself.