I Am Learning To Live With It

How did I turn into someone who writes about grief? I was always one of those people who believed that grief was a private matter. Since losing my brother to suicide, the last six months have catapulted me into conversations people are desperate to have about death, suicide, depression, grief, healing, and what it means to survive.

This coming Saturday marks six months since the day my brother died. I was the last person he texted before he sat down on the side of a dry creek bed and ended his life. I’ve told a handful of people about what I know, who I blame, how we got here. I say “we” because when someone you love dies by suicide, the fallout isn’t singular anymore.

A decade ago, I was in similar (and different) circumstances. I was ready to end my life. Somehow, that night, I survived. Because of this, I can see how desperate my brother felt to end the pain he’d been experiencing for so long. On the one hand, I’m relieved he’s not in pain anymore. On the other hand, for those he left behind, our work is just beginning.

For the first few days, weeks, and months after his passing, I thought about how he died every day—every hour, if I’m honest. I’ve repeatedly considered his last morning. I’ve held what I know gently through the autumn and all winter. I imagined and examined each moment as the trees shed their leaves and the snows began. As winter descended, I burrowed into the loss, covering myself with memories. This week, though, my thoughts have turned to how he lived. It’s the arrival of spring; the earth is beginning to emerge. The stream is fat with spring runoff; I can hear her chortling through closed windows. There is more birdsong. A skinny and enormous coyote has been seen searching for food nearby. I was awakened this morning by a heron calling near the stream. Life continues, and for whatever reason, I am here, and my brother is gone.

And I am learning to live with it.