“I needed you. Why didn’t you help me?”
You stand before me in the dream saying those words, the wounds from your suicide glaring.
It jarred me awake last night and I spent the remainder of the night pouring through emails looking for clues that I missed as if finding something could ever make it better. You were sad, but I was as well. We survived burying mom even though for you especially it felt as if your world had shattered. You were always the strong one, surviving physical limitations and human cruelty because of them as if they were nothing. You never complained, not once. You were the brave one in life, and maybe the truth is you were the brave one in the end as well.
Friends tell me it’s a waste of my time and energy because no matter what I find, you’re not coming back ever as if I’m three and unable to comprehend what’s happened. The well intentioned attempts to minimize (It’s been two years, you should be over this by now) cut deeply.
Two siblings dead, suddenly, unexpectedly within six weeks.
Every day, for the past two years, and most likely for the next however many I live, I live with my failure to help you and with the stark reality I am alone.