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My brother died of an overdose today. February 13th, 2024, sometime around 3:00 a.m. A phone call awoke me at 4:38, just before the sun began to creep through the clouds, breaking forth light on a dreary winter morning. But nothing about the news brought joy; it brought forth the mourning. It wasn’t a triumph to begin a new day. It was a rooster cracking at the crack of dawn, reminding me I still had to live.
I made it to work on time, despite feeling dead inside. Grief is a funny thing. Unexpected for one. Heartbreaking when we allow it to be. Numbing when we avoid it or turn it off for too long. There are so many thoughts and emotions running through my brain.
It’s my fault. I could’ve done more. I should’ve loved him better. I could’ve saved him. It’s my fault if he’s in Hell. I wish I had told him I loved him. I wish I wouldn’t have waited to try and heal our relationship. I wish I would’ve had just a little more time. I wish I would’ve forgiven more fully. Embraced deeper. Been more like Jesus to him.
A Thief Called Addiction
My mom, aunt, and grandma keep telling me it’s not my fault. Ryan was a grown man who made his own choices and no one could’ve saved him. The addiction was too strong. Yet in the back of my mind, I can’t help but think what if I’d done more? What if I’d been a better testimony? Risked my life and safety to try and save his?
A billion memories pierce my focus. Every moment we ever shared—good and bad—now pierced by death. Something I wonder if he saw coming? Did he know he wouldn’t make it? Was he ready to die?
