Now What.

This is where I start but it will not be where I end.

I can hardly move.  I have this sensation that if I just sit still I won’t have to cry anymore.  Like a mouse aware of a snake in the barn I’m frozen in anticipation; hoping grief will forget that I am here and move quietly on its way.

I also have this immense feeling of dread.  I can almost feel that the sadness is gathering strength somewhere in my peripheral and is waiting to catch me unaware and then it will unleash itself on me full strength.  As bad as it is now I have the strongest sense that it plans to get worse.  Darker.  It will try to eat me if I let it.

I don’t really know why I am trying to write about this.  Maybe I’m not.  I’m just trying to put my brain to use.  To force it to organize thoughts.  Preparing for Nelson’s memorial took hours of pretty serious concentration and it was helpful for me.  I looked at his face in hundreds and hundreds of pictures and thought of him intensely non stop for hours on end as I put together photo montages and selected songs.  But those were the moments I wasn’t crying and I wasn’t floating aimlessly.  Of course now there is no more memorial to plan and the world is beginning to uncurl its edges and go back about its business and we’re left here trying to go on.  I guess I am hoping this can be the replacement activity to the memorial planning.

Already I am doubting though.  I don’t understand the website or its features or why I would want to assign a category.  The category is ‘my life is destroyed’.  Is that a category? Tag this ‘my brother died and I don’t know how to go on’.

I want to feel normal again.  I want the bliss I was unknowingly experiencing when Bart called me to tell me.  I want my brother back.  I want this to be the worlds longest nightmare.


My dear friend is in pain

A couple of months ago I got a strange Facebook message from a woman I didn’t know.  She was a friend of a friend and she was reaching out to tell me my friend was participating in a retreat and asked if I would write her a letter telling her why she is special and what her friendship means to me.  Of course I said.  Of course I will write the letter!  My friend lives in another state.  I envisioned her getting my letter and the letters from her other friends here and knew it would be really important to her.  I was honored to do it.  And then.  And then I didn’t do it.  I kept saying I’m going to sit down and do that.  Oh yeah!  I really got to do that!  I HAVE TO REMEMBER TO WRITE THAT LETTER.  And finally another friend reminds me that the deadline was at hand and at that point I was flying across the country to be with my sick father and the letter didn’t get written.  I felt just terrible and thought I would mail her a letter just as soon as life settled down for me.  Then I decided I would write a letter and bring it with me in June when my son and I are going to visit.

And then today happened.  My friend lost her father today.  It was unexpected and my friend is left traumatized.  She called me and the pain was palpable.  And I related to it so much.  It took me back to the immediate time after Nelson was found dead.  That dark dark place that seemed, at the time, to be my whole world and my whole future.  Knowing my friend was now feeling that makes me feel broken for her.  With sudden loss comes questions and second guessing and lists of what if’s.  You can overwhelm yourself with those things.  They aren’t real and they steal your energy.  I know she will spend time with those thoughts and it makes me cry because I can’t be beside her to whisper to her that it’s not you.  It’s not you.  It’s not you.

I have been struggling to remember what people said to me at that time that helped me. Initially I couldn’t remember because that time was almost happening to another person.  The person I was ‘before’.  But then I started to remember the people who reached out to say ‘how are you?’ and were not asking the obvious question.  They weren’t asking some global how are you question.  They were asking how I was at the moment they were asking me because this grief is so fluid.  They wanted to know how I was in the small moments not in the big picture because the big picture part was obvious.  It was the rollercoaster they were giving me a safe place to describe or even to just shake my head and say nothing. They were letting me know they were there for the long haul so they had the time to deep dive with me into the moments of despair or the feelings of confusion and guilt.  When someone says ‘how are you?’ and they really want to know the immediate answer it is a gift.  Other people would say I am here.  I’m thinking about you.  In fact, my dear friend was a constant source of comfort to me because she reached out to me so frequently just to say I love you.  You don’t need to respond.  I am just thinking of you.  I hurt with you.  Sometimes my pain was so intense I would turtle away and it was the gentle reminders of loved ones that they were still there and were not going away that held me in place.  Brave people told me things would get better.  I didn’t always believe them and sometimes I resented them for saying it but eventually I needed to be told that because it gave me something to hang on to.  In the midst of the tragedy the thing I could not find was hope.  Humans need the capacity to hope.  And the word better isn’t what you think.  It isn’t a world where flowers bloom and unicorns roam the street it is a world where you can sleep, where you have an appetite, where you can laugh without immediately feeling guilty, it is a softening of the edges of your grief.  It seems impossible that it will happen but then it does.  Slowly and over a great deal of time but it does.  I am different and I still carry the wound of Nelson’s death but I am also getting better.  I have hope.

I am already making mistakes in the things I say to my friend.  I can sense it and she is a strong enough person to tell me what is useful to her and when what i am saying is not.  But I also hope she feels the intense love I am sending her and that my thoughts are consumed for her and her family.  And I will try to say the right things and I will pray that love will cover me when I say the wrong things.

And I’m really wishing I had written her that letter.  I really want her to know why I think she is special because it is those very qualities that will see her through her dark days.  She is loving.  Deeply loving.  She is the daughter we all wish we had.  She showers her parents with love and they are still deeply integrated into her daily life and the lives of her family.  Her father felt her love.  He loved her.  I hope she never falters in this knowledge.

She is a powerful mother.  She makes Herculean efforts to ensure that her daughters are living their best lives.  She is *that* Mom who goes full throttle to raise healthy, happy girls.  She makes memories for them.  She meets them where they are.  She understands what makes them each unique.  And she loves them with the fierceness of mother love.  When they hurt she hurts.  She is a safe place for those girls and they will be a support to each other during this time.

She is a lousy weather friend.  When things get tough she gets in there and stands with you.  When other people walk out she walks in.  She doesn’t give up on the people who matter.  She is honest and direct but also very vulnerable when it comes to her heart.  She is going to hurt for a long time.  Grief is a measure of love.  My friend loves big.  And she matters.

I hope she feels the many hearts that are joining with her tonight and will remain with her in the days weeks and months ahead.  She is not alone.  She has been a safe place for me to land so many times.  The friend she most deserves right now, if I am to be honest, is one just like herself.  I will never stop trying to be just that.IMG_2915





I should write that down….

Well hello under utilized blog.  What are you doing over here on the task bar of my computer?  Just sitting and waiting for me to decide I NEED you?  You’re so patient and I’m so…  something else.  I have a short pile of unfinished blog posts that I have started over the past year but that didn’t seem to get finished.  A couple of them make me feel bad because I did want to capture some things that have happened.  Maybe I’ll still get to it.  The Out of the Darkness Walk post is an example of one I should and would like to finish.

This business of grieving has been such a mine field and I’d like to write about that too when I can form coherent thoughts on the matter.  Maybe it’s okay that it’s not in real-time.  I have been using my mind.  I have read stacks of books. I have drawn stacks of drawings. I have over and under medicated.  I have gained a startling amount of weight.  I have spent time with friends and avoided them too.  I have had some familial relationships flourish and some break my heart.  It has most certainly been a year of change that far extends beyond Nelson’s suicide; although all inroads still lead there.

For years people have periodically said to me ‘you should write a blog’.  I don’t think they meant this though.  This heavy, sad thing.  I think they meant silly stories about my son and the absolutely crazy funny stuff he says.  I would like to write a blog that was more fun.  That had some wings.  I am making a deal with myself and allowing myself to just be free with what I want to write about.  If there is an arch of a story then it gets written.  If it’s light then its light.  If its dragging me to my knees then to my knees it is.


Today kind of hurts

It’s one of those days.  Tuesdays to be specific. Tuesday is the day I go to my “suicide survivor group”.  I signed a confidentiality agreement regarding the group and I’m trying to take it seriously so will say no more about it except that I tend to leave those groups feeling a little battered.  I think going is productive but it is tough and I feel like I’ve worked when I leave. Inevitably I cry on the way home and am usually a bit more emotional the day after than I am most other days.  I see an Ativan in my very near future so I can go to sleep tonight.  Tonight is a bit extra painful because on the way home I called my dad.

He had written to ask for my social security number.  He is preparing his bank accounts for his death, adding me and my siblings as ‘pay on death’ beneficiaries.  A lawyer has advised it.  I understand and suppose it is the smart way to set things up but it also feels gross to be doing this sort of business with him.  But that wasn’t the painful part of the conversation.  My Dad is ostensibly very healthy and I don’t anticipate his death in the near future.  That part of the conversation just felt like an exercise in preparedness.

The hard part of tonight’s conversation was that I  also told him that when I talk to him I feel sad because he seems to not be sad about Nelson dying.  What does that look like?  Well, when we talk I inevitably ask “how are you?” with meaning hanging heavy in my voice.  I’m not asking how the day is going, I’m asking how he is doing with the grieving.  I have to believe he knows that is what I am asking.  But inevitably his response is “I am doing good, Teresa” said with emphasis on good.  At first I wondered if this was his way of making sure I don’t spend energy worrying about him?  Was he saying this to be protective of me?   Was he being paternal? But in the back of my head has been a growing discomfort because I think I’ve known it was no such thing.  What if he really is doing “good”?   How do I feel about the idea of him feeling “good”?

Let’s back up.  It’s important to know that I come from a long line of criers on my father’s side.  Growing up I thought of my father as the emotionally in touch one of my parents.  I saw my mother as tough, stoic and holding feelings at arm’s length.  I thought of my father as being more affectionate than my mother and more capable of being emotionally vulnerable.  Growing up I had seen my father break down in tears a multitude of times and can vividly remember the one time I saw my mother cry.  A four-year old Nelson had used one of her college papers as a practice sheet for his scissor skills and had shredded it pretty thoroughly the night before it was due.  So I thought of my dad as the feeling parent; the one who was emotionally available.  All of that may actually be true but it’s all relative.  The more time I spend in therapy the more I come to realize that our household didn’t lend itself to emotional honesty.  Like at all.   The fact that I thought of my dad as being emotionally available didn’t mean  he was.  it meant he was more so than my mother who had defense mechanisms on top of her defense mechanisims.  Crying about something isn’t the same as talking about something.  Caring isn’t communication.

When I was in highschool I spent a summer living with a friend’s mother.  It was a pretty big crisis point in my family up until that point.  My parents really struggled with how to parent me and things weren’t going smoothly.  During the events that lead to me leaving to go live with this family friend and also during the months of that summer my parents wrote each other letters discussing what they thought about how to handle the situation.  Let me say that again, they wrote letters.  To each other.  THEY LIVED TOGETHER and slept in the same bed but they left each other letters rather than talk about these emotionally charged concerns.  I’m not sure that they didn’t talk but I certainly know the letters happened and I found them and read them my senior year.  At the time they were a fount of information for me about the thought process my parents were each using to approach the subject of parenting me; the things they wanted to happen, the things that worried them, the strategies that would be employed.    I wish I could read those letters now because I’d be curious to see if they contained any reference to actual feelings about what was happening.  I am going to guess they did not.  I feel so surprised to realize how little we all talked about feelings.  I had such emotional upheaval as a teenager and spent so much time embattled with them and slamming doors and crying and seeing my dad cry that I think I thought of us as being an in touch group.  But we weren’t.  Not really.  Maybe more than some other families of the day and my dad was certainly more comfortable being sad than many of the other dads I knew but we weren’t skilled at talking to each other about how we felt.  We said I love you and at birthdays and other family celebrations we would talk about what we liked about each other and things we were grateful for and I confused that with emotional connection.  It was the tip of the emotional iceberg but it didn’t mean we were comfortable or practiced at speaking truthfully about difficult emotions.  I continue to get my arms around that.  We would read books and cry about the things that happened to the characters and I felt very deeply which made me think I was part of a deeply feeling tribe.  Maybe I was but feeling isn’t expressing.

When my Dad left us – and that is how we describe it – when Dad left us he gave us each a pretty silted phone call.  I think he cried and tried to  say that he just had to do this but it was a month or so later that we got a much more in-depth letter explaining his decisions.  As I write this it occurs to me that Dad is much more comfortable talking about his own feelings than receiving the feelings of others.  I’m not sure what I am trying to say.  Or what significance any of that has on anything.

Anyway.  So I told my Dad I needed him to be honest with me and tell me if he was really okay because I’m not okay and I feel really alone in that.  No one seems to be sad like me and I don’t understand why and THAT makes me sad too.  But he told me he is doing good.  He said he is an old man with an old man’s perspective.  He thinks it’s neither good nor bad that Nelson is gone – it is just is.  It happened.  He kept saying that.  It happened.  Which I guess means he is not struggling to accept it.  I should be relieved for him.  I continue to struggle with accepting it.  I just have this notion in my head that parents who lose their children are devastated.  I think of that as the worst pain a person could face.  No one wants to outlive their children.  Right?  Talking to Dad it sounded like he was talking about the death of a houseplant.  I can’t imagine he meant for me to feel this way about our conversation but it gutted me. I imagine he wanted the things he was saying to comfort me but I felt so distant from him.  People can be at different places, I get that and talking about this stuff can make people uncomfortable and as I have already described raw emotions aren’t our strong suit.  I get that too.  And maybe there is something about being in the twilight of your life where you have a perspective that the rest of us don’t and you can put things into their place and process it without all the tears.  I just don’t know.  I just know I’m not in that place and it hurt me to talk to him and I can’t imagine wanting to talk to him again any time soon.

I feel so lonely with this grief.  Both of my siblings have made statements that this loss is different from losing our mother.  The context is that it is not as earth shattering for them.  For me it is the exact opposite.  My world was rocked when my mother died and I grieved hard and heavy but this hurts in a very different way.  To me this is tragedy.  My mother’s death was so hard but it was not a tragedy.   There were even parts of her life that I felt profound sadness and regret about both on her behalf and on my own.  She had a tough life and a lot of emotional upheaval that she didn’t know how to cope with until the very end of her life.  She died just as she was beginning to live.  And that is tragic but her death was not a tragedy.  Nelson’s death is a tragedy to me.

Talking to Dad I think he also pointed out that he had not seen Nelson in some time and I suppose that makes him more removed?  I don’t know.  I miss Nelson’s presence for sure.  There is a void on Friday evenings.  There is an emptiness in my phone.  It hurts.  It is ongoing hurt.  I feel like I just want (need!) to find someone who is as sad as I am about Nelson but that person can’t be found.  And the looking for that person, that reaching out to others and finding such a disconnection is just too much.

Not every day feels like this.  I readily admit that I am now in the possession of many good days, better days.  But this has not been one of them.

I picked up a pen

There were several days between my brother’s death and his memorial.  We needed the time to assemble the family from far and wide and to let people know and to dislodge the lump which was perpetually stuck in our throats.

In hindsight I feel good about the memorial we put together.  I may have written about it before.  Intense grief seems to produce amnesia about things for me.  Anyway.  The memorial was held at the funeral home in Nelson’s home town.  It was the quintesential small southern town funeral home.  In other words, men in suits and southern accents who probably expected things to be done a ‘certain’ way.  We were most definitely not the ‘certain way’.  We brought in a projector and a macbook and a huge screen and John Moreland music.   We brought in a 10 gallon bucket and straw hats and guitars.  We created a busking spot a-la Nelson style at the front of our designated room.  The memorial service itself was comprised of three slideshows set to music – good music; intersperced by addresses from each of Nelson’s siblings and an open mic portion for anyone who wanted to speak.  It was moving and it felt like Nelson and I wish he could have known that the place was packed, every overflow room utilized and that he was greatly missed and mourned.

I suppose I took the lead with the planning of the memorial.  The highschool version of me that had perfected procrastination has long ago been banished and the replacement version of me overplans and works voraciously to meet deadlines and exceed expectations.  The memorial was no exception.  I slept very little that first week as I culled together hundreds of images of Nelson and arranged and rearranged slideshows so that they held a theme or complimented the music.  I rehearsed their execution and left absolute nothing to chance.  I wrote my remarks for the memorial after thinking for days about what I wanted to say and throwing away several drafts that proved inadequate.  I made a photobook for my son that included hundred of pictures of Nelson with his uncle Nelson and had it printed in hardback book format and delivered prior to the memorial.   I was exhausted but I was determined to treat the occasion with the respect it deserved.  I wanted very much, to do right by Nelson.  In so many ways he didn’t treat himself well and I wanted to offer the counter balance to that by honoring his memory with care and attention to all the details. Many people commented about the amount of work I had done in those few short days.  They remarked about it as if it was somehow unusual or implausible that I would be able to do such a thing in the midst of the tragedy.  I must admit I was somewhat bewildered that others weren’t attacking the planning with the same gusto.  It was such a comfort to me to be so immersed in the music my brother loved while pouring over images of him.  It was good for me to journey through my memories looking at the pictures and organizing and chronicling them.  I felt like it was keeping my brain moving and my thoughts revolving around Nelson in a way that, while sad, also gave me great comfort.  I felt compelled to work on the memorial.  It gave me somewhere to place my grief.

And then it was over.  And there was a strong sensation of now what?  We almost immediately went to Portland and then we were back and off to the beach for a few days with friends but then we were home and it was too quiet and I didn’t have a memorial to plan and I didn’t know what to do with myself.  It was such a dark time.  I felt like I cried so much and the future seemed so bleak.  At some point during this time my friend Chris remarked that I didn’t seem to have any defense mechanisms to help me deal with the grief.  He pointed out that I seemed to stay in a perpetually raw state.  I remember thinking at the time ‘why would I want any defense mechanisms?’   I needed, wanted to feel the sadness.  My brother was so important to me.  I didn’t want to defend myself against the loss.  I wanted to sit with it and hope that maybe it would swallow me up and that would just be the end of it all.  But it didn’t work that way.  I was just adrift with my pain.  And it wasn’t good.  I worried that I might really lose myself.  I was having dark thoughts.  Very dark thoughts.  I didn’t know if it was normal but I was very overwhelmed.  And that dark, overwhelming sensation was also static.  Day after day I would wake up and burst into tears.  I would cry off and on all day long and ended each day sobbing into my pillow.  I wasn’t able to articulate it then but I needed a place to put the energy of my grief.  Planning the memorial had given me that but it was temporary.

While we were in Portland Judd found a painted rock at the Japanese Gardens.  It had a positive message painted on it.  When we got home I found two more rocks at Target of all places.  It got me thinking.  I took a trip to Michaels to buy paints and brushes and I started gathering rocks.   I had actually had the idea of painting rocks germinate in Portland and I picked up a couple rocks from Portland and brought them home.  I decided I would make my brother a rock garden in my backyard.  The first rock I painted was big and I painted small dots all over it.  It wasn’t very creative or artistic but it was tedious and it took hours of concentration.  It was the sort of concentration that requires you to focus on what you’re doing but with room for thoughts to move about which was the magical combination I apparently needed.  What happened next has felt like a miracle to me.  I started painting rocks – badly and with little vision but while I was doing it I wasn’t crying; usually.  I started to look at rocks other people had painted to give me inspiration (direction) and I discovered Mandala stones which I thought were extremly beautiful.  I tried in vain to create one myself.  Mine were so sloppy and horrible I often painted over them and started over.  It wasn’t rocket science but I was making something and I was using my brain.  I was practicing being focused again.  It felt medatative in some strange way.

All this painting necessitated the buying of more supplies.  And on one of the trips to buy more paint or some such thing I wandered the aisles of the store and found something called ‘artist tiles’.  It was nothing more than a small pad of black paper squares.  On the cover was an illustration of a doodle done in white ink.  Hey, that’s neat, I thought to myself.  I should try that.  And so I bought a pad of artist tiles and a pen with white ink.  I felt pretty unencumbered to sit down with a piece of paper and pen when I had become adjusted to paint bottles and brushes and cups of water and rocks and paper towels and lots of prep and even more clean up.  I don’t know what I was hoping to do.  I just wanted to try to draw something with white ink on black paper.  I simultaneously bought new colored brush pens and a couple books on hand lettering.  I was on some creative high.  The hand lettering, while very appealing to me, didn’t catch fire.  Not yet.  I tried it and realized my mind wasn’t able to take on the task of learning this skill.  I put the books and pens in my closet.  But I put the artist tiles and the pen on my kitchen table.  And I went back to mostly crying all day.  One day, while crying I picked up the pen and drew a flower on one of the black paper tiles.  It didn’t look half bad.  I think most of the credit goes to the fact that it’s white ink on a black background but I liked it and I drew another flower next to it and then another and then another.  Before I knew it, I had made a drawing.  I had made a drawing!  I made another.  I kind of liked them.  I surprised myself.  I was drawing flowers and thinking about Nelson and it was focused and it was comforting.  And then I drew more.  And then I drew so many that I bought a box to put them all in.  I began to realize that at some point I might look in this box and think about where my life and heart were when I was doing these drawings.  I tried not to care if they were good or not.  They were quite definitely medicinal for me.  But Judd told me they were good.  He made me feel so good about them.  He made me feel artistic.  Never would I have identified myself as artistic.  Can trauma make turn you into an artistic person?  I tried painting Mandala stones again and finally they started to look better; not great perhaps but better.  It was a new experience for me to create something and feel that it looked good.  How emotionally rewarding.  I own a lot of supplies now and I worry a bit that all this desire to create may come to a screetching halt particularily when the rigors of the real world, paying job and school work  come pressing in.  But for now, I am drawing and painting and grieving for my very precious brother.

dimes, nickels, quarters, oh my

The dead have no privacy.  All the secrets will be brought to light.  Idiocincracies will be examined by people you never meant to show them to in ways you never imagined.  Bad habits will be illuminated.  Everything is up for examination, discussion and assumption.  Its a very difficult thing for me as we move through Nelson’s life leftovers and try to make sense of it all.  He was a private man and he no longer has any privacy at all.

I have washed every piece of clothes in Nelson’s house over these last weeks.  I have handled his socks, his underwear, his stained tshirts.  I have stuck my hands in pants pockets to ensure they were empty.  I’ve folded dress shirts and wondered if he ever wore them.  Going through all his clothes I was able to identify the clothes that were his favorites – or at least the most often worn.  I now know he kept socks that had lost their elacticty but didn’t have holes in his pants.  I have come to realize most of his clothes weren’t orginally owned by him.  I recognized so many of them as things we had given him.

Collectively, Nelson’s siblings have moved through every inch of his home lifting piles of trash looking for answers.  We have poured over rants written on scratch papers hoping to make sense of things.  I have been staggered at the notion that we let him live in these conditions; that his house could be so dirty yet he was always neatly groomed.

I’ve looked at his taxes for the last umpteen years.  I know how much (how little) money he made.  I know that he itemized his car travel and he reported his busking income. I know that he didn’t value paper money and it laid all over his house – all over his floors.  I know he collected change in jars and pots.  I also know he never used it because when the jar would be filled it would then glaze over with an inch of dust.

We know that Nelson was planning for some sort of economic collapse.  He had purchased gold and silver; physical gold and silver.   Some of it he treated carefully and secured with deliberation and some of it was handled very casually and was found under heaps of trash or at the bottom of used styrophoam cups.  He had stockpiled grains in the crawl space of his house.  He had purchased Johnny Walker Red mini bottles by the case presumbably to be used as currency should the need ever arise.

He bought toilet paper and paper towels online and had them delievered to his house.  He slept on a bed without sheets.  He spent his days cleaning for a living but did not clean his own home in any way.

He had plans.  He had purchased recording equipment.  He had long term investments, he saved money in the bank.

I look at all of these details and I become more and more certain that Nelson did not feel he had a choice when he decided to die.  If he felt he had time and ability he would have taken steps to protect his privacy more.  On the afternoon he died he was observed by a neighbor throwing away a computer.  It struck the neighbor as odd so he remembered it and told Bart.  Bart got the computer out of the trash.  We haven’t looked at it yet and it makes me uneasy because I realize that discrarding that machine was Nelson’s one act of hiding the proverbial bones. I can’t imagine he fully appreciated the degree that we would be going through all he left behind but in regards to that computer he knew he didn’t want anyone to see it.  We will look at it though.  That’s the thing about this abrupt departure.  For me it has fed the need to know more than we should be allowed; to be privy to the private.  It has taken from Nelson the dignity of keeping one’s own secrets.   I suppose that is true for all of us.  Nothing is truly private.  At any moment we could be gone and our details will be left bare for another person who has no way of really translating what it all means.

And that’s the other thing.  I think about my own life, and the conclusions someone might reach if they looked at my things without context provided by me.  There are the things people wouldn’t understand and I realize this is also probably true about Nelson.  And maybe that is the place where his privacy gets to live.  No matter how many times we sift through his things and walk his frequented paths we can’t experience them in the way he did.  We can never know for sure.



I wish this was about me being resiliant but it’s not.  It’s about how resiliant depression seems to be.  Depression is a bitch that won’t leave the party.  I’m taking Welbutrin now and it’s not working.  I cry without any control.  It happens multiple times a day.  I am full of worry.  I have thoughts, the likes of which I have never had before.  I wonder how this will end.

I’m too sad to write an actual blog post but I think it is important that I document the whole of this journey so I am leaving this here in hopes that some day it will just be ‘that dark time in my life’.

cobwebs, money and other gross things

Money changes things doesn’t it?  It changes people.  It gives and takes power.  Today I am struggling with the unknown.  Specifically, did my brother have a will?  *rubbing hands together gleefully* ooooh, family drama!  We found a draft will that was dated a few years ago.  It was kind of slap stitched together.  Brevity is the soul of wit and shit.  But it is but a draft.  We have not yet found a signed copy.  Did one exist?  If it does not exist do we assume from the draft what his final thoughts were?  What if there is a lone hold out that says “I don’t think this is what he ultimately would have come up with three years later”?  What if that hold out is me?

Last night I heard someone say ‘you can’t be logical when you’re being emotional’.  No doubt that is true.  I just screamed at my sister.  Like, screamed at my sister and said a lot of ‘you can’t take that back’ kind of stuff.  For no reason.  We don’t even know what we’re talking about.  I’m ratcheting up over the potential of something that in fact may not even exist.  I’m preemptively striking.  Sigh.

So there are three living children left in our family.  We are the walking wounded; all of us.  Let me be clear, we are all the walking wounded and I get that.  We are all casting about to make sense of the nonsensical.  We are all hurt in ways that are uniquely are own.  I am looking at the horizon of my life and deeply struggling to see what could possibly still be out there that is worth looking forward to.  Too bleak?  Too bad; it’s all I have.  And the uncertainty of things is very uncomfortable to me.  Why did Nelson choose to end his life now?  What precipitated these events?  Could we have stopped it in some way?  Was the needle moveable?  And what now?  That is one of the biggest questions, what now?  The things we didn’t lose in the proverbial fire; what becomes of those things?

As it stands now, our only glimpse into what Nelson may have wanted was the draft will which said give everything to our youngest brother and if he is dead split it between my sisters.  He is not dead.  He is here and mourning alongside the rest of us yet he is now different from us because all the flotsam and jetsam  of Nelson’s life are theoretically under his domain.  This includes a house that had deteriorated into chaos under Nelson’s ownership and any holdings my brother may have had.  All of it – the responsiblity – to one person to sift through and reorganize and keep and give away.  It feels and has felt complicated.  It is a lot for one person to be given.  I feel for my brother in many ways.  THat said, I also feel I need to ask permission to venture into Nelson’s home, which by the way, was also our childhood home.  In the days directly after the suicide I felt sure that there were answers lurking in those walls and if I were just given the time and opportunity I would be able to find them and make sense of the nonsensical.  But the pain of not feeling as if I could move freely and sink my arms in to my elbows gave me serious reservation and some resentment, if I am to be honest.  I finally asked for a key and was immediately given one.  It made me wonder why I hadn’t asked sooner.  My brother is healing on his own timeline and he and I are very different about dealing with the emotional struggles of life.  I wade in and he turns his back on the puddle.  Neither is right, it just is.  So he’s not ready and I’m chomping at the bit.  I can’t imagine having all the decisions and searching and sifting hanging over our head for weeks and months.  I want to pull the band-aid off.  I want to have it all over but the shouting, as they say. But baby brother is moving at a glacier’s pace by comparison and I feel like I can’t push things because it all is his to manage.  It has been a humbling experience to say the least.  I find myself walking on eggshells; wanting to do more but afraid to ask for fear of being told no.  It is worth mentioning that he has given no indication that he would say no; there is just pain in having to ask.

The house is in very bad shape.  There is garbage on top of debris.  Cleaning it will take a Herculean effort.  We all plan to pitch in and help but in a deferential manner because it isn’t ours to orchestrate.  There is little of value and what is there has been so long neglected.  My mother’s art is there.  That has value, to us.  My brother lived like a pauper which means that in theory there is also money left over and here is where the road takes a sharp turn.  Flotsam and jetsam are marine law terms.  They are the stuff found in the ocean.  Flotsam is the stuff that can be claimed by the original owner and Jetsam is up for grabs.  To me, the house has always been flotsam.  My mother left the house to Nelson because he lived with her at the time of her death and had for several years prior.  She must have said to him ‘take care of your brother’ because it is sort of known without origin that Mom intended for Nelson to share the house with my youngest brother if needed.  He was a college student at the time of her death.   She didn’t want anyone to be homeless. But that was over a decade ago.   So here we are and it appears Nelson meant to make good on that promise. While difficult, I am at peace with that.  It is no longer the home of my childhood.  That home lives on a short street in the back of my mind and there it will remain. As my father said, it was a lifetime ago.

But the jetsam.  What of the jetsam?  Should that not be distributed evenly to all of us who remain?  Was one of us really so much more important than the others?  Were the rest of us such footnotes?  I struggle.  I know Nelson loved me.  I know without hesitation he loved my son more.  But as he goes from this world nothing of him remains for us except our memories.  I struggle.  I struggle to see why one person may get inequitabley enriched and the rest of us just get heartbreak.  I think it is not fair.  The world isn’t fair though, right?  Another log to burn on the fire.  And what does it say about my moral character that I care?  I’m struggling with that too.  You are not supposed to care about this sort of thing.  It means you are crass and selfish.  Or does it?  My sister feels that if there is no will found she will honor the draft will.  My father agrees.  *camera swings slowly to me*……….    I want my remaining brother to say ‘I think Nelson meant for all of us to feel loved and he didn’t mean for me to just be the recipient; he meant for me to act as his steward.  You are all helping me with the job of cleaning the house and picking up the pieces Nelson left behind and I feel like it is my responsiblity to be benevolent about the things that can be salvaged.’ That is what I would want him to say.  Perhaps he will.  Maybe I’m supposed to wave my hand casually and say ‘oh no, this is yours’ like my sister and father say they will but I am really, really struggling.

The hilarious part is that we don’t even know what there is besides cobwebs and 15 year old cars.  There may be nothing more than words on a draft will.  There may be nothing but the love between siblings struggling to survive.  It would be simplier if it were so.