When you go through trauma therapy, one of the hardest things to do is to revisit those memories you’ve tried so hard to bury. You hyper focus on work or hobbies that distract you from dealing with all the shit you’ve tried to forget. You put it in your box of unwanteds and you do your best to forget, until that one little thing unlocks it all. Then it’s just a flood of memories that overwhelm you, and you find yourself down the rabbit hole of remembering. At first, it’s hard to remember all the details because you’ve done such a good job forgetting. Then you start having nightmares about it, you start zoning out like you’re reliving the memory. Then the details come into focus, and you remember things you wish you hadn’t. Things you wish you could have changed. Things you regret. I live with a lot of regret, and I live with a lot of anger.
I regret not knowing what red flags were for suicidal ideation. I was so young when it all happened (15 years old). Everyone saw my brother as this lively, obnoxiously happy kid. When I think of my brother’s smile, I see the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. The jaw that could mash even the toughest wires, which was an awful habit of his… constantly chewing on things like a dog. But that was him, the perfect social butterfly. Dabbling in things, a jack of all trades but a master of none (lol, let’s be real.)
But that was the thing, that’s the front that he put on for so many people. I know my brother was much more in tune with himself and his feelings. He was disgustingly sentimental. He wrote poorly worded songs, wrote poems and letters, and he spilled his heart out every week while being high as a kite. I was (un)luckily one of the people that he would pull to listen to his rambling at night. I wish I had caught some of the red flags that he had mentioned, but maybe he didn’t even know it himself.
I remember the day that I looked up whether you could overdose on Aspirin or not, because it was something he had mentioned. It would take a lot of Aspirin, and it would definitely be painful - at least I’d imagine it would since it would tear up your stomach. He just shrugged it off like it was nothing. His head hurt, he said, “how much Aspirin do you think it would take to kill someone?” We never spoke of it again, but remembering it makes me nauseous.
Sometimes I wish it were me instead - that it was me that died on that playground. Especially with all that’s gone on in the past two years. Some hurtful things that I’ve read and heard by word of mouth. Sometimes I think it would’ve been better if it were me.
But since it wasn’t, I think I should at least do my part in trying to not miss anymore red flags, with myself or with anyone else. I thank my family and small circle of trusted friends that make me feel worth loving, that care about me, and that have checked in on me. You all are the reason that I’m trying to change my thoughts.