The Hardest Words to Speak Are Also the Most Courageous

I truly believe there's good in all of us. Whether you were born to be "bad" or have had a series of "life sucks" episodes, it doesn't mean you're unworthy, undeserving or a bad person. Even if unfortunate people in your life have tried drilling negative words to rattle your core or throw rocks and hide their hands (I used to know plenty of these people), there just has to be some untouched gold in their souls that's waiting to be discovered or encouraged to be revealed. At least that's what I like to believe. It helps me to understand what I don't know.

Don't we all deserve to be heard, to be selflessly spoken to, to be loved? Love is expressed in different forms, you know. I think the challenge many of us face is 1. how to express and 2. how to receive.

Despite how much my brother was struggling with his thoughts and managing how his time was spent, he reached. People didn't know it then, but he did. Missed phone calls, canceled plans, rescheduled outings, text messages, questions, smiles…he reached in his own way even though it wasn't loud and he wasn't waving a red flag. Those who genuinely listened and loved, latched onto him, reached and pulled him in. I did~ I never released his hand. Not only did I put a life vest on him, not only did I lovingly chain myself to him in his last weeks, but I listened, I kept quiet as he spoke, and Lord- I love him. I love him hard. And I love him immensely even if he hadn't been struggling because my love is sincere.

There are terms I don't use loosely anymore. Such as "I'm going crazy" or "I'd kill myself" or "I'm devastated". Why? Because those few words speak volumes for me and my family. They're dramatically overused to express the magnitude of a sentiment. But since we know that all three phrases exist and come true, I don't use them and I don't condone them. They hurt. I'm cautious and hyper-sensitive.
And to add to this point: I NEVER say that my brother killed himself. That sounds violent and murderous. He took his life- albeit it he's dead. He committed suicide. And even then, the word suicide is ugly and stings to hear it, read it, speak it. So instead I say that he took his life. I pad the cause of his death because I can. I don't require anyone's permission to verbalize as I do. And if I could create a word that exudes compassion, empathy and love, I would. If only our culture and society would catch on…

Another thing I don't do? I don't lie. Why would I lie about my brother's cause of death. In the beginning I was in a position to say nothing. His passing spread like a plague gone wild which provided my family the courtesy of not having to place phone calls or share the devastating news. As time progressed and poked at me, I was faced with having to open my mouth not knowing what was going to be said. So when the first stranger asked me how my brother passed, I hesitated. My mind raced in circles, What do I say? How do I say it? Will she judge him? How will she react? Will she ask me how? Truth.
He took his life, my voice quivered and my shoulders shook. Silence ensued. She embraced me and held my heart to hers as I fell into her arms and cried the truth I had spoken. Her eyes locked into mine and silently allowed me to feel.

And I feel. And I cry and I deal with all of me head on. And while I do this and learn how to do this, I maintain who I am. Give yourself permission to be you.