So. Where to begin. Today marks a year. I don’t know how I feel about it, but I know how people expect me to feel. A year ago today I lost my brother to two things: Depression and a 9mm. If that blatant expression is too harsh for you, don’t continue. Now many people could turn this into a gun rights argument, I beg you not to. He made a decision, and it has nothing to do with the gun. He could have used anything. The point is my brother committed suicide a year ago and I don’t feel. I’m not saying I don’t feel sad, I’m saying I don’t feel. My emotions are broken. I get hints of joy and pain here and there, but they are fleeting. Mostly I pretend to be excited about things for the sake of not disturbing others. According to all the people who try to console me about his loss I should be distraught. For them I act distraught. According to those who had forgotten him entirely until it comes up in conversation, it’s been a year so I should move on. For them I’m moved on. How do I truly feel? Empty. He was my best friend, and now I’m a year without him, but I have no idea where to go next. I mostly side with the I should move on crowd, but I don’t seem to be able to. I spend most of my time depressed and trying to pretend I’m not. But today marks a year. One year. A whole year without a brother. A whole year without my closest friend. The one to whom I told all. The one who knew me better than anyone else may ever know me. Today marks a year from the day he died because he felt that nobody else cared enough about him. Tomorrow marks a year from the day after. Every day marks a year from any random day a year ago. So what makes today special for anyone but me? Nothing. It’s just another day for everyone I pass. Every smiling face I see is another person celebrating a year since nothing. So I hide the feelings I don’t even understand. All this to say, if you see me, and I look fine, I’m not. If you ask me how I’m doing and I say fine, I’m not. If you push it, I might breakdown, so don’t. I don’t want to talk about it any more than I have here. This is my open door. It will now close. Please don’t attempt to open it again. I am grateful to the support I’ve been given, and the well wishes, but they hurt more than they help. I know people mean well, but every moment I’m not thinking of what today means is a moment of rest. When people say they’re sorry for me I die a little inside again. So if you see me, pray for me, but don’t ask me how I’m doing, because, “I’m doing fine!” Thanks for reading this far if you did. It means a lot to me that some people really do care, but honestly the nicest thing anyone has done for me is to be a friend who helps by talking about random stuff to take my mind off the people who “try” to help me.
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