Yesterday, my brother, George, should've been celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday. Instead, today we are commemorating the first anniversary of his death by suicide. While both days have been difficult, and while it's difficult to believe sometimes that a year has passed already, at the same time, it's hard not to see how my grief has changed over the past twelve months.
When my brother first took his own life, the pain of his death was compounded by the manner in which he died. For a long time afterward, I kept envisioning the manner in which he died, seeing his lifeless body in my mind's eye. Any good times we shared were overshadowed by regret: regret that I hadn't seen this coming; regret that, with my own depression, I hadn't been a better role model; regret that I resented him so much when we were children; regret that we only had seven years as adults to enjoy each other's company. I focused on the unfairness of the situation, how most siblings who fought as children then have decades to enjoy a newfound closeness as adults, while we were denied that. I hated myself for not being a better sister.
As time has passed, while I don't miss George any less, I have begun to find solace in remembering his life. I can smile when I think of the funny and creative things he did or said, and can enjoy relating such tales to others once more. And I know that my brother will live on always in my heart and mind, and in the hearts and minds of all who loved him, for as long as we have these memories.
Rest in peace, George.
