Life is An Open Wound

I received my brother's coroners report this morning. I had been meaning to obtain it for some time now, but it just so happens that when I forgot all about it, it surfaced.

The first few weeks following Charley's death, I went on a rampant Internet search for details and information to educate myself on what happened and to ingrain the details into my brain. I read about the embalming process. I researched his cause of death so that I may fully understand what happened to his body and presence. I scoured over medical articles and wikipedia. I took a visit to the police station and requested a copy of his report, along with a scripted copy of the 9-1-1 emergency call I made. I frequently smelled the clothes he passed away in. I wanted nothing more than to get as close to his last minutes as I possibly could. And since then, I continue wanting nothing more in life than to be close to his soul. I love my brother, this wonderful soul, so deeply that I am focused on keeping him alive, here, with me.

I fantasize everyday about changing the outcome of our terrible reality. I envision myself asking him to meet me for dinner that night and going over his house. Or not being sick and answering his calls to me. I would've dashed the one mile to his house and stretched myself to squeeze all of my strength and love into him. Squeezed every seed and drop of "you are worthy" juice into a man who didn't truly know how much he was loved by dozens of people. My love for him…he held at a very high value. And his love for me. Since we were kids, I held him on a very high pedestal..and I still do. He deserves to be placed on a throne of honor and continuous investment. My brother could never do any wrong in my eyes. He could be a jerk sometimes and it was only me that could tell him that. It was only me who could be forthright with him and he would embrace me and my words. No one else knows him like I do. We were in sync, he and I. We were a magical speculation of invisible strings that were tied to each end of our hearts. Everywhere we went, we were together and anywhere we went individually, we were together. I live my life with him in the pits of my sun and the comfort of my arms.
And it is because I know him so well, that our connected souls empower me to know (and say) that he did not want to take his life. No matter what nay sayers say or ignorant assholes who think they knew him on a level they didn't, Charley did not want this for himself or for me or Mia or my mom. I know that in the seconds he was dying, he wanted out. I. just. know. It's not denial, it is what I know. His logical mind did not want this, and neither did his heart. People say to me, "But Yolie, he's already gone. What does it matter?" It matters to me. The emotional connection matters to me. Or people say, "Find comfort in knowing he's no longer in pain. No longer suffering". Yes that is true, but he's also GONE. He's not in pain anymore but he's also dead. How does that serve of any comfort for me? I would love the unimaginable of "He's no longer in pain, feeling better, and resting at home where he's tangible".

Do you know that I feel I'm going crazy sometimes? Picturing him beside me? I mean, RIGHT BESIDE ME. I can see his starry eyes decrease and slant in size as he smiles at me and throws his head back in such laughter of contentment and life. I can see him smile at me and see the boy in him that lives in a soul of affection and playground-filled happiness. This is what I see and hear everyday. This is what my hands willfully hold all day.

So, I drove to work with the report fluttering above me like thrown feathers to the sky. I parked my car and sat. Listening. And I felt my pent up pain claw its way out of my heart's closet and release in the form of screams and ache and anger. Over and over and over again. Three good, long, piercing screams. They resonated again and took me back to the day my screams felt like torturous death. Most days I look around for Charley. I think I'll catch him walking through the hallway or sitting on the couch or on a stool at the kitchen counter. Yesterday while I painted with Mia in the backyard, I felt okay until I was pained with a feeling of loneliness. Charley isn't here. He's not here.