These Sufferings

It was something akin to being punched in the gut and feeling all the air rush out of you in a rush of wind.

“these sufferings that have seasoned me.”

There was a time when everything just fell down. The sun and the moon and the stars and clouds and even the ground under my feet, the minute trusted lips curled around the words “he’s gone”.  It was something akin to being punched in the gut and feeling all the air rush out of you in the rush of wind. “He’s gone”.

He’s gone.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.

You say the words over and over again in your head. You hear them in your heartbeat. You tie them up in knots on this long string and you run your hands over them and like an endless African chant they keep humming inside your head, dancing through your mind, leaving their painful footprints on your brain.

He’s gone.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.

And there’s this flicker somewhere in you. It’s dark and it’s sharp and it stings and burns and hurts. And you feel the words sliding down from your head, landing lighting on your tongue and jumping up and down and up and down and kicking at your teeth and screaming, screaming, screaming until you have no choice but to open up your mouth and say the words out loud.

“He’s gone.”
“He’s gone.”
“He’s gone.”

And it’s not like it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s more like there was this strange kind of surge of adrenaline that masks all the pain and makes you go numb and you hear a tiny voice way in the back of mind. You don’t want to know what it’s saying but you listen anyway because you don’t have any control anymore.

What is there to live for?

You dig your nails into your skin just because you want to feel something, anything but the numbness that’s consumed you. You bite down hard on your own lip and taste blood. You rip out your hair and hold in your hand and then you throw on the ground and, God, you cry.

He’s gone.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.

You want to pray and then you don’t, because you blame God. He was the one that wrecked everything. He was the one who took him away. He was the one who turned your life into hell. So you don’t pray. And when everyone else does you just sit there and you ask “why, why, why”. There’s no other words, just why. God, why. Why did turn everything around? Why did you take him away from me?

He’s gone.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.

You go home and the darkness of the night follows you inside, upstairs to your room and you sit on the bed and you clench his blanket in your fists and you bury your face in it and you sob. You sob because he’s gone and you sob because you can’t bring him back no matter how much you want to. You sob because you want to know why God is so cruel. You sob because a million people could tell you that they’re sorry, just like they did that night, and it wouldn’t make a difference.

He’s gone.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.

And then you cry yourself to sleep. You cry yourself to sleep for a week, maybe two, or three at the most. The days are all kind of running into each other and overlapping in this weird way that makes you unsure just how long it’s been. And after a while you just cry because it’s the only think you can do.

“It can’t rain all the time.”
-Eric Draven, The Crow (1994)

Eventually, you stop crying so much. It only comes in these little bursts now. Unexpected and brought on by the strangest things. A pinwheel turning in the wind or the tip-tapping of the rain against the window. You tuck his picture underneath your radio, right next to your bed, just in case you need it. You put your locket, housing two sweet photos of him, in the bottom of jewelry box- far enough away to keep from upsetting you but close enough to grab if you need it. You start to collect all of the feelings you tried push away and you lay them all out in front of you and, with the ink of a thousand pens, you start to piece them all together in the form of words, stringing one after the other until you’ve got dozens of poems and stories scattered all around your room. You let all your little emotions lace themselves between the strings of your guitar until all you almost feel happy again.

“If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.”
-Sarah, The Crow (1994)

One day, you wake up it’s been a year (or two or three or four) and you find that it hurts just much as the very first day but there’s something different. The pain is the same, but now you’re stronger. You can stand in front of the mirror and see all the scars that run rampant across your heart and you can trace them all tenderly with a timid finger as tears snake down your cheeks and you know that all this suffering, all this pain, all this hurt is somehow making you a better person. Because I’ve defined myself by that pain for so long, and I’ve lived with it tearing my whole soul apart and I’ve felt my hear rip down the middle and somehow, someway, by some act of God I’ve made through alive.

And suddenly I fall down on my knees I just pray because I’m ready to, I’m ready to let God in again, I’m ready to forgive him and I’m ready to be forgiven for turning away for so long. I still want answers. But I’m ok to wait for them.

“Let the butterflies cry.
Let them cry for you.
You just dry your eyes,
because the world is wonderful.”
-Butterfly Cry, Kerli Koiv

I have this little image I sketch all over the place- in my notebooks and on worksheets and everywhere I can. It’s this big blue butterfly with its wings spread wide, and on either side of it are two words in Japanese kanji. Past and eternity. When I turn 18, the permanent version of this little sketch I’ve been doodling for a year will be tattooed onto my back as a reminder that all the pain of the past has turned me into this beautiful person, and even though I’ll never be quiet as perfect as the brother I lost I’ll at least be able to look forward to spending all of eternity at his side.

And if I ever miss him I’ve still got that photograph tucked underneath that radio and that locket in my jewelry box. And if I feel all my emotions bubbling up to the surface I can set them free on sheets of paper (now you know the sound of my <3heart when it hits the paper). And if the pain becomes unbearable again I can feel the familiar weight of my guitar in my lap and let the music wash all he hurt away.

“Life is my ~creation
Is my best friend
Imagination is my defense
And I’ll keep walking
When skies are gray
Whatever happens
Was meant that way.”
-The Creationist, Kerli Koiv

“these sufferings that have seasoned me.”

Author's Note

Yes, this is another theology reflection. But the thing about this one is that this is the first time I've ever really laid out all my raw emotions about my brother's death before. This kind of a big step for me and, I have to say, I feel so good to have finally let all of that out. I've never been this completely honest about it. So, comments and reactions greatly appreciated, but please withhold crit about this one if you do happen to have any.

Reviews

[hershey's kiss]

this is beautiful.
gosh I just want to cry.
thank you for sharing, you're so brave and I admire you so much :]

[Chris Parker]

If i could give you a 200 it still wouldn't be enough to rate this story :)

[deeps]

This is quite the Amazing write here. I throughly enjoyed this write. Such strong emotions flow through out this write. I am so sorry about this. No one can tell you how to feel only you know inside how you feel. You have really opened up here. Just stay strong and everything will look much brighter.

[Marlena]

The rate system won't let me go past 100.

I think you probably already know what I think. You're right- you're stronger, now. You're a better person, and it might've been at the cost of something much more than just 'dear' but you still made it through. Despite friendship and family, the part of this on getting through is still all you, people are only here to help, they can't pull you through. You know what I mean? Of course you do.