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.