Lather

Dear A--,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you felt there was no other way, that life would never get better than the daily hell you went through for the last five years.

I'm sorry you were a suicide.

I'm sorry you were sent off to an unnecessary, unwinable war on a pure lie and that it left your body scarred and your mind in tatters.

I'm sorry that your psychic wounds were so crippling. I know that those were even more painful than the loss of your legs.

I'm sorry that the only way you could get the chaotic, terrifying cacophony out of your head was to turn to the bottle and the silver spoon.

I'm so sorry that after a while, even drugs and alcohol couldn't silence your inner screams and caused you to lose what you felt were the only things you could live for--your wife, your children, your family, your job, and your home.

I'm sorry my most vivid memory of you now is not of you as you were--handsome, confident, funny, kind, intelligent, the brother I never had--but of you as the gaunt, sallow corpse in the coffin at the funeral home that the priest who christened you said those compassionate, comforting words over.

I'm sorry that your father has aged at least fifty years overnight and no longer has that gentle, compassionate kindness in his eyes--the same benevolence I always saw in your eyes--any more.

I'm sorry--so very sorry--that you were in so much emotional turmoil and pain.

I'm sorry that you felt that no one would or could comprehend how truly wounded you were.

I'm sorry I never told you of my own personal struggles with mental illness and substance abuse. Perhaps if I had, maybe you would've felt that you had someone who you could've turned to who would've truly understood how much psychic pain you were in.

I'm so very sorry that my shame and my pride hid from you someone you could've seen as an ally, someone who had been to the abyss and back and is doing much better now. I wish I could've shown you that there is a good side to life on the other side of the darkness, that recovery is possible.

I'm so very sorry that you were so blinded by your own pain that you couldn't see how much pain you would put all of the rest of us in by taking your own life.

But, my dear one, know that I still love you so very much and that I'm not judging you or your actions. I've been there, multiple times. I can't even say with any certainty that I won't someday be there again.

I'm not angry with you. I am so deeply hurt by your actions, but I do understand. Life got to be too much for you. God--if there is one--gave you more than you could handle and you understandably broke.

I remember the last time I saw you alive:  December 15, 2012. I remember driving in a snowstorm all night to meet you outside of the seedy flop house you were staying at in one of the scariest neighborhoods in Detroit. I remember how I had packed a backpack full of granola bars, trail mix, homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, gatorade, and a blanket because I wanted you to have something to eat and something to help you fight off the bitter chill of a Michigan winter.

When we finally met up, I remember how truly glad you seemed to be to see me. You hugged me so tightly and with such warmth of feeling and wiped a tear from the corner of your eye. I remember taking out a sandwich and forcing you to eat the whole thing--crusts and all--in front of me because you were so scarily skeletal from malnutrition. I even gave you my last five dollars, even though I knew you would just shoot it into your veins, because I wanted you to know that I still cared, that not everyone in the family had written you off.

We talked and laughed for almost an hour about all sorts of things, the same way we used to as kids. I remember wishing you a Merry Christmas as we were saying our goodbyes. You held me so tightly again, and it astonished me that someone so rail thin could still be so strong.

You didn't see it, but once I turned the corner as I made my way back to where my car was parked, I fell to my knees and wept violently because I knew I'd never see you alive again.

I just hope that you did have a Merry Christmas that year because I wanted to do so much more for you and give you so much more than just some broke-ass college student staples and pocket change, but I couldn't.

I hope you felt loved and cared for that Christmas because you were and still are so much.

I'm so sorry that I couldn't save you from yourself.

I'm so sorry that you didn't feel you could've turned to me when I would've moved heaven and earth for you had I just known one iota about the depths of your despair.

So just know, my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle buddy, my partner in crime, my hero, my friend, that I still love you and always will.

If you want my forgiveness, I will more than give it to you, even though I don't feel that you did anything wrong. If you want it, it's yours.

I hope with all of my being that you have found the peace you needed in life now that you've crossed over into death.

I hope that one day I'll see you again.

See you on the other side, Slimer.

Love Always,

Cousin Meelee