Suicide Is Painful - Happy Fucking Valentine's Day

I once lived.

Then I was sure I'd never feel happiness again.

Now, I'm beginning to live again.

Daily I've struggled about that last day of yours, my soul mate brother. You woke up for the very last time just this very morning, one year ago. You poured a cup of coffee. The mug was in your kitchen sink.

Somehow, you couldn't see through to the trail of sadness and despair that would pour down the bathtub drain along with your blood. You were righthanded, but used your left to work with a knife. You kicked lefty. Shot a hockey puck lefty. You drew your illustrations righty. The utility knife they found between your knees on Saint Valentine's Day was in your left hand.

You stopped by the office, received a FedEx package, left an incoming FAX on the machine, full of papers finalizing the sale of your land in Montana. Your land that looked lazily over to the Yellowstone River where you fly-fished so many times.

You didn't bump into Mitch or Meg. Things must have felt so quiet. Too quiet. Maybe bumping into someone would've changed things. You didn't return emails. Sometime late in the morning or early afternoon, you came home. Then, before you went for a run, you folded your faded jeans neatly in half, lengthwise, and placed them carefully on the bed. The belt was still on them.

Your apartment was immaculate, as things always were for you. A perfectionist: neat and particular about styles, the way you arranged things. You hated messy cars, messy kitchens, messy hair. Oh, if only you had had kids...

That evening, you pulled some boneless-skinless chicken breasts from the 'fridge, a head of broccoli, then started cutting them up for a stir-fry. You'd just finished a glass of wine. I wonder if it brought you any satisfaction.

Your stereo had three CD's in it: "Ballads" by the John Coltrane Quartet; "Monkey Jungle" by Duke Ellington; and Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane. The cops and the bio-hazard clean-up crew never told us if the stereo was on when they found you. Kris says she wishes she could've cleaned the tub. That's the way she could love you, clean you up and take care of you. We could've held you like a baby. Let you cry all night.

Maybe the image of the sharp knife cutting through the flesh of the chicken was too powerful. So, you left everything right there on the kitchen counter, lit a bunch of candles and placed them around the bathroom, and on the edge of the tub. Then, you stepped into the tub and sat, facing the drain. Did you sit and think it over for a few minutes? No one can ever really know those precious moments before you took your last breath.

I once had a mental image of how someone cuts themselves with the intention of dying. After I heard the police report on your death I threw that image away. Your's was no cry for help, no little slit on the wrists. You went for the pulsing vein on the inside of your elbow, the genetic characteristic we both shared. Low body fat, veins on the arms. Remember way back, lifting weights at the gym and seeing the veins pop out? I can almost picture you driving down the road not long before this happened, feeling the veins on your arm and thinking "If I do it, that's the place to cut."

That's what you did.

You cut. Over and over as hard as you could. To the bone.

The day you died you took me along with you.

As if out of your very own mouth I can hear it now:

"Happy Fucking Valentine's Day".

I've broken down every interaction, read your every email, every credit card bill, poured through your apartment, now all packed up neatly in boxes at our house. Sometimes when I need to feel you I open up a note you sent me, or an email, or look up at the photo of you and me before we climbed Carrigain that winter.

It drove Mom nuts, but, you didn't have to leave a note: because I know. Soul mates know...

Something has to give if you live a lifetime stuffing anger inside. Somewhere, sometime, somehow a boiling pot of water under pressure will blow. You couldn't be angry at Adrienne after she cheated on you. You couldn't be mad at Dad for what happened when he was still drinking (33 years ago). Mom made us feel like anger was poison. That robbed us all of our ability to deal anger, process our emotions.

Then, Dad died only three months before you decided to go. Losing him was like untying a shoelace. Things sort of fell apart, lost their meaning. No glue. Mom began to lean on you because you were alone, too. I'm sure that's what happened.

I miss my best friend.

You were beautiful. Everything about you: the way you drew, your laughter, you made a room light up, girls swooned for you, whatever was yours was mine, you guided me, inspired me, challenged me...pissed me off a few times.

You helped define me. Now, losing you forces me to redefine myself all on my own.

In some sick and metaphysical way, I thank you for this absolutely painful and dramatic, ugly challenge that you've left in my lap.

I won't let you down.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FOR MY BROTHER:

Can you hear me?
Are you out there somewhere?
Can you lay a flower on the snow
And let me know you hear?

Are you out there
Somewhere in the wind?

In the dark of night
When I lay awake
I wonder if you're there
Looking over me

I can hear you say my name
Like it was yesterday
Then I feel the fear
Wash over my soul

Fear is dark and cold
You can't pull the covers up far enough
Laying awake before the dawn
No one to answer your call

I see you in the light
I know you're out there
I feel you every day
And hope you'll look over us

When I do see you again someday
Have a six-pack ready
Let's take a drive down to Old Saybrook
Pick up some cigarettes on the way
I'll walk in the house naked
And tell Adrienne that it's time for bed

Don't worry
I've heard you calling
I do know you're out there:
I heard the owl hooting at us near the porch this summer