Learning from my brother 25 years after he died

Some of you may know that when I was 25 my brother Jeff was found dead at the bottom of a ravine at 27 as a result of suicide.  For years I’ve wondered about it without any real insight.

In December my mom put a box in front of me and asked me to go through it.  It was a box of his things.

On top was about 150 handwritten pages from his time mostly in rehabs that I’d never read or never really knew about.  Many of you know that I live a daily spiritual life such that I understand the challenges/battles of rehab.

It literally took my breath away when I realized what it was.  The weight of the pages were amplified by the emotional weight of what I was about to read.

I always thought that I couldn’t be more different than my brother, turns out we had things in common.

After reading the pages, I realized several things about myself and my brother:

I was picked on mercilessly by my brother, physically and emotionally.  And yet this same brother if he EVER saw anyone picking on me, he turned into a fierce warrior to protect me. 

Most of my friends know that I’m about as good a fighter as Glass Joe in that game Punch Out, easily defeated.  Jeff knew that.

I never quite understood why those two things were true, pick on AND protect me.  It turns out HE was mercilessly picked on as a kid which I never knew. 

I immediately got it.  And simultaneously felt my heart sink knowing I never really got curious with him to talk to him about it.

It’s at least partially the dastardly manifestation of the cheap, lazy recitation of boys will be boys which is such bs. 

I was a super sensitive kid and he was too.

I realized in that moment that we had that in common.

Second, I read about his struggles to stay sober.  And if you’ve made it this long, it’s probably true that you know I am for almost 9 years.  I don’t actively tell people, but I will share it when appropriate.

It’s hard to read him writing about the things that I talk to men about nearly every day as they struggle in the life and death battle of addiction.  I try to show them this way of life I’ve learned. 

If I met him today I could help him, I couldn’t save him, but I could help him.

I had a few tries before I got this daily life I live and I struggled until then.

I realized in that moment we had that in common.

When I was in my early 20’s I showed little interest in considering any context other than the one I knew.  I hadn’t crossed the line into the disease of addiction and it’s VERY difficult for someone who hasn’t to get someone who has.

Not only did I not understand it, I judged it.  I held unexpressed anger and resentment.  I was embarrassed. 

I remember when I was 15 and had gone out of town to visit him at a rehab.  I was in in an English class where my classmates were pushing me to tell them where I had been the last few days.

Right when I was about to say it, a friend of mine who knew what was happening, touched my arm and told me not to say it. 

I had no way of knowing how to talk about it and neither did my family, neither did Jeff.  We, like many families at the time had the “look good from the outside” dynamic.

And I loved and still love my family even with all our challenges.  His writing showed me that he loved the family too.

I realized in that moment we had that in common.

All of these realizations were rushing into me.

It was particularly challenging that the person I am today would love to speak to the person Jeff was then.  It’s similar to the challenge with the current experience with my father.

And it’s not possible.

I still don’t really understand the layers of emotions and realizations that resulted from this.  But I do know this:

The experience has taught me that I just NEVER really know.  I think I know but I don’t really know. 

And with all the tools and growth that I have today, it’s my calling, my duty to ask, at LEAST ask about someone else’s experience.

What I learned most clearly from reading his writing was that Jeff wanted to be understood.  He wanted to be free of his mental demons.  He wanted to give and receive love.

I realize now and forever that we will always have that in common.

Comments

[Chris Yeh]

It is such a challenge for any of us to understand another's experience of the world. We literally have no access to it, and at best, have to rely on their willingness to let us inside the curtain.

That you and Jeff had so much in common, yet both of you probably had no idea, is a tragic example of this.

But I would like to think that Jeff would appreciate the kind of life you live today. He would be happy that you have managed to battle your demons, and would welcome the kind of compassion and openness you show to your friends.

Nothing can bring back those who are tragically taken from us, but we can live our lives in a way that honors them and their struggle.

[Tim J Taylor]

Tragic is actually an apt word to use here. It literally is.

I hope he's happy about it at some level. And at some level I believe he is.

It's just so profound to consider that these "little" but "big" truths had been hidden for decades in plain sight.