The Selfishness I Felt During Grief
It was mid-November. I had gone to my first holiday event of the year—red and green lights, fondue, mistletoe, even a spontaneous dance-off. The air was getting crisp, but the warmth of September still lingered. There was a content feeling—the leaves began to shed, creating a patchwork of concrete and red wherever you walked. I didn’t know that November 12th would be the day everything would change. The world felt like it had stopped. No amount of sadness compared. My dear brother, my best friend, had taken his own life.
It was a flurry of packing, goodbyes, and the long flight from London back to California. I was in despair, then completely numb. I reunited with my parents, and was now an only child. I couldn’t go into his room for a week. Dozens of people came over with food for our family. We felt supported by our community. In all this grief, I came to the realization—siblings are the forgotten mourners. Condolence letters—Dear Kathleen and Vern, Dear Mr. and Mrs. Winters... In a time where I was trying so hard to feel grateful for all that I still had, for the effort and kindness of the community, I felt like my pain was being put to the side. Strangers noting, "I can’t imagine what this is like for your parents," "Be strong for your parents," "You’re all your parents have left," "If you die, you parents would just kill themselves." How does one say that to a girl whose brother just died?
I had lost my best friend, and felt an impending pressure to be the strong one, while grappling with that fact I would be the one who lived with this the longest. When my parents are gone, my grandparents, my aunt and uncles—who will I have? But I would feel ashamed to even think that—I am so lucky to have my parents, my grandparents, my aunt and uncles—to have them for the time I have. And to have had my brother for the time I did. We never get enough time with those we love...
Some of my friends were wonderful, some didn’t understand. The pain didn’t go away in a week, a month, it won’t go away in a year. Where would he be at my wedding? The birth of my first child? The funerals of those who were supposed to die before us?
The moment I found out replays through my head sometimes... in the hallway of my dorm room, my mom spoke words I never thought I would hear... The hysteria that came moments after—the tears that didn't stop for two days straight.
This is why I write this now—to explain the complexity of losing a brother. The pain of losing him, the pain you feel for your parents, for his friends, the new-found pressure on your own life, the survivor’s guilt—why was it him and not me?
I want you to know you are not alone in this feeling, and your pain and anger are valid. For all those who have lost someone to suicide, don’t extinguish your pain. Nurture others, nurture yourself. I felt and feel ashamed for my selfish thoughts during the weeks after his death—why do I care if my name is written on a condolence card? My brother just died—this isn’t about me... But those feelings are real—loss is complex. Grief and the journey towards healing is not linear. My family and I began to heal at different moments, had different coping mechanisms, sometimes just wanted to scream at my brother, or wanted to cry in bed for the entire day. We must let ourselves feel these ups and downs. Nurture the pain, and know you are not alone.
Photo by Marlene Langer. Edited by Madison Case.
