Surviving the crash

It was a regular day. The sun baking down on the dirt lot behind our house, which we had transformed the best we could into a race track for the new go-cart our uncle won in a beer promotion from the local grocery store. The thorny blackberry bushes and towering weeds whipped around in the dry afternoon wind, creating a border that we weren't supposed to pass without permission from an adult.  

Same as every day, we played outside making up games and goofing around with our two cousins until we were forced to come inside for some necessity like dinner. This particular day, I’ll never forget. We were bored with the track, and just about everything else in life, and wanted to explore new ground. I was young, too short to drive the go-cart alone. My brother helped by taking turns either steering or maneuvering the pedals. We were team riding when it happened.

We both took firm hold of our positions and stubbornness set in like rigor mortis. Or at least after our punishment, we probably wished it was rigor mortis. We moved one set of tires out of the way and escaped the race track. We were on our own, making up our own set of rules along the way at lightning speed with very little to absolutely no forethought of the next step. I floored the gas as we made the first turn into the adjacent open field, weeds crashed down in front of us. The only thing in our line of site once we cleared the field was the house – our house. As it got closer and closer, I looked up and saw it. His grin – a devilish look took over and I knew he was challenging me. He always challenged me. We eyed each other for a brief second and knew one of us would have to give up. I’d have to let go of the gas and break completely or he’d have to turn, changing our destructive course. Neither of us liked to back down, especially not to each other.

At the very last possible second, common sense re-entered both our consciousnesses. Unfortunately, the epiphany came too late to be effective. I slammed on the break, he whipped the wheel to the left and we crashed sideways through the basement of the house, tumbling right out of the go-cart.

I remember thinking one of us better be severely injured or we were both about to be as the kitchen door flew open and the screaming began. We knew we were both to blame and for the first few moments while the dust settled down around us and before the shrill voices of others drew too near, we looked at each other with that same devilish grin knowing we were both okay and together we’d get through it. Whatever “it” was about to be didn’t matter because we had each other. That would never change.

Until it did. Five years ago today, August 1^st, he died and forever took a piece of me with him. I’d have gladly crashed through life with him forever taking the blame if he’d have only let me help, trusted that I'd either have found a way out or went down in flames with him. So stubborn, wasteful and pointless – same as our crash.

Growing up rough

My brother must have really wanted a brother because he treated me pretty rough. I wouldn't take any of it back honestly, but looking back I can't believe some of the things we did together. 

For instance, can you believe he… 

·         Thought he could make his spit feel like rain falling down on our heads. More importantly, can you believe I let him test his theory entirely too often. Just trust me on this one, it doesn’t feel like rain.

·         Dared me to run down the street naked. And guess who did it. Yes, that would be his silly little sister once again.

·         Talked us into playing hide-n-seek in tall weeds with bb guns. I think I still have a few bullets in my buttocks from that game.

·         Locked me in the cellar below the kitchen and turned the lights off. When I screamed in terror, he reminded me that Freddy Krueger gets stronger when people scream. So I sat quietly for what felt like forever until he remembered to unlock the door. I'm pretty certain I refused to make him dinner that night... and rightfully so.

·         Saved me from a baby-sitter spank-down when I told him to keep his sh*t out of my drawers. I had a hard time with my r's when I was young and had meant to say shirt. Ha!  

·         Handcuffed me to a pole on top of the roof of our house. Then realized he didn’t have the key. He did sit with me while we waited for the police to show up and set me free. 
·         Knocked me to the ground one time when we were boxing in our room. It was an accident but when we played sports, we played full contact or nothing at all.

·         Taught me how to play football and took full advantage of the fact that I never told mom where all my bruises came from.

·         Refused to let any of his friends date me and would even beat up strangers for looking at me wrong or saying anything inappropriate -- one time in a grocery store.

·         Always made me go first whether we were jumping off rooftops, perfecting landings at Mt. Rose or cliff diving in Yuba. I was his guinea pig, for sure, and loved every second of it.

·         Made up a secret language of knocks so we could talk between the wall that divided our bedrooms.

·         Raced me in a wheel barrow down a steep hill in Oregon into thorny bushes. 

·         Was single handedly responsible for cracking my head open twice. The third time I did on my own.

In honor of being without him for the past five years, I wanted to recall some of the crazier things that made him so fun to be around, so full of life and energy. 

Five Years Gone

My heart ripped today. Just a little more jagged than it normally feels – a permanent tear. The kind of break that requires significant change to recover from, if recovery’s even a desired option. I can’t say why exactly except to say that every once in awhile an emotion comes through your body that destroys everything you thought you knew and alters you – dare say, forever.

I’ve been picked up, shaken and set back down to start over again. But I can’t keep thoughts straight with the whirlwind of regret rambling through me. My mind’s a blender pulsating through chunks of ice harder than steel to crush. My life swirling around inside, crashing into obstacles I cling to for definition. 

Passing days with punctures so immense I’m less than whole. Anger rises at the vice that stole the other half – the missing half that leaves feeling of pointlessness, of restlessness rattling my senses. He’s gone and always will be.

I hate him for leaving me. I hate me for letting him. Regret will be the death of me before any other emotion has the chance to tear me apart. Of that, I'm certain.

Writing About the Pain and Memories... my way out

My brother died about 4-1/2 years ago. I got the call on my 30th birthday that he was sick. He'd entered a state of depression over what he deemed as insurmountable debt and had come clean about his addiction to methadone and other pain receptor drugs he was using to cope with life. He checked himself into a mental facility to receive help but left two weeks later without completing the program and, obvious to most of us around him, without much success. He seemed depressed still and unable to partake in life around him. The signs were so blatantly obvious, yet I ignored them. We all ignored them. But then again, no one ever thinks the worst will actually happen. Until it does, of course.

My brother shot himself two weeks after my 30th birthday. He died on the back patio of my mother's house with his blood seeping through the pavers -- an image I'll never forget.

Everyone has a grieving method. My mother cried for weeks, months... and still cries to this day when she talks about him. In fact, most people that I recall from those first few crazy weeks after it all happened cried -- they all cried, a lot. Not to say I didn't. I did. At my own times and usually alone because, well, that's just what I do. I've never been good at expressing myself verbally. My method of coping is to write down my feelings. I wrote to my brother in his obituary. I wrote to him again on the funeral services web site created for just that specific purpose, so I must not be the only one who uses writing as an escape. I write to him in quick notes during the day in a journal I keep tucked away. Then, a little over a year ago, I wrote down the details of his death. The brutality of it all and the pain expressed in my words shocked even me. I read it and read it over and over again, reminding myself that it was real. Then I got an idea to write it as if it wasn't real. Change it slightly -- new names, disguise the cause into what my heart told me was the actual cause behind his death, put the pain into someone else – a fictional character to house my memories and pain.

That's when The Destiny began. It's had many names along the way and naturally I had to throw in the traditional love story because, after all, who doesn’t enjoy the nostalgia of true love. The Destiny began as a story about my brother's death but after more revisions than I care to admit and a few focus groups, has transformed into a story I can say I'm proud of.
To read the first part of this manuscript, which is still in the editing phase, visit my web site http://www.amyhorning.com/ and click on The Destiny: Renegade.

My mother tells me I can't keep my emotions bottled up -- that it's not normal, perhaps I'm not normal. She insists that running doesn't equate to a good talk about my feelings. But I say it does. I run and I feel better. Isn't that the point of talking about your feelings with someone else? So if I can accomplish the same goal in a method that works better for me, then I can't see any harm in that. Maybe she's right. Maybe everyone is right and some day they'll all be able to think back and say I told her so, but I doubt it. I seriously doubt it. I'm strong enough to make it -- I know that for sure. I also know I'm stubborn and determined enough to do it at my own pace and my own way. 

Even the Memories Hurt: Life growing up with my brother

I thought about him today. My brother. I was driving to work and a song came on the radio. Really quite an annoying song that I never really liked. But when I hear it, which is seldom thankfully, I can't turn it off because it connects me to a time when my brother was still alive.

We were hanging out after school, alone at home as usual. I must have been in about fourth grade because he was helping me with my times tables. He was always good with numbers. Then again, he was good with everything until he wasn’t and then he was destructive.

He made flash cards and quizzed me until I had the entire deck memorized. I can still see him smiling as the deck got smaller. We cycled through the few that just wouldn't stick in my head. When there were no cards left, he jumped up and flipped on the radio in the bedroom that we shared.

As much as I like music, I'm horrible at recognizing songs before the words start and even worse at remembering the name of the artist or band so I sat back and watched him flip his long bangs around as he strummed his air guitar to Dire Strait's "Money for Nothing" (which by the way, I had to Google to get the correct name... ha, nothing changes). He ducked into the closet and as the first lyrics began, he jumped out as if he was stepping onto a stage with bright lights to a sold out crowd. He rocked out for the entire song, eventually grabbing a scarf that he used as a prop.

I laughed and relished being part of his audience. I had to laugh again this morning when I heard "I want my MTV..." quietly begin from my car radio. I allowed myself to think about him, which quickly turned to missing him and before I knew it, I'd arrived at work with very little recollection of the stops or turns I'd made along the way, sort of like life.