I am leftover chicken

Forgotten. Alienated. Cast aside and left out.

 

These are the common feelings of sibling survivors of suicides.

And I am among them.

I grasp the concept of his absence, and I accept the plain and simple facts - (1) I will never fully comprehend, (2) I will always ask 'why' and (3) my mission is to continue on, proclaiming the goodness of the Savior until I can go to Heaven too.

 

"How are your parents?" uuhhhh.....

If I had a dollar for every time someone has side-stepped my own tragedy to emphasize my parents' hurt, I could move to Bermuda.

I am not AT ALL 'ranking' the pain that we are all feeling. But to assume that the burden of this pain is greater for one than the other is ludicrous. Truly.

My brother was a piece of me. We shared DNA. I would have given my life for him - and he knew it.

Although I never nursed him, I did change a fair share of diapers, completed his homework more times than he did in younger years, knelt before God in more pleas for mercy on his behalf than I can count, I took him in, and of course I rescued him at 2am many many times.

I am not Ryan's mom. I am not Ryan's dad. I am Ryan's sister. His only sibling. And I hurt too.

 

To assume that there is some love-scale is unbiblical. Jesus Himself dumped the perceived family structure on it's head in the Gospels of John, Mark, Luke, and the book of Acts.

"It must be so terrible for them." Yeah, it must be.

I pray every night that I will never know their pain. But that doesn't mean that I'm not hurting too.

I'm an only child now, at 29. How in the world does one deal with that?!

A part of me died on April 25. Can't anyone understand that I'll never be whole either?

How do I keep from wondering if my parents secretly wish I was gone and he was here?

How do I keep from getting supremely offended that they give away his stuff without thinking that it might matter to me?

How do I let it all go, and just assume the role of "the sister" who obviously doesn't have a hand in the rest of the process to healing?

How do I "get over it" when I am wounded so deeply by the very people I have to console?

How do I mourn alone, without contempt and blame eating my heart piece by piece?

My mom says things like "I don't know if I'll ever be happy again." or "Life doesn't go on for me, I'll never heal." "My purpose in life was to have Ryan." and what I hear is "Ryan made life worth living" and "he is more important than you."

--These feelings are not new to me, I have been living with this silent agony for a lifetime. But as I got closer to Ryan, the older we got, I was able to overcome my inferiority complex because he always told me that I mattered to him.--

 

How do I express my deepest thoughts, fears, and emotions when I feel like a foreigner in this pain?

Why do I feel like my family is unraveling without my brother here to hold us together?

Well, it's because we are. There are now 2 distinct 'family' units. Us and them. Ryan always included me, always kept me in the loop, and I hate that I am now left wondering.

 

So, Ryan, if you can hear me - I miss you. I miss how you always kept me in the picture.

I miss that I was never "leftover chicken" to you.

I miss my brother. MY BROTHER..

I love you, Ralphy.

5 mile bike ride.

 

--Julie--

A picture is worth a million tears

In an effort to share some precious memories, but not overwhelm you with pictures on every post, I have decided to share a few pictures of my brother and 1. These are happy memories. Moments that I relive again and again in my heart. 

Ryan and I. December 2012. 

Thanksgiving 2012

Christmas 2012

Ryan's high school graduation. 2007

Pheasant hunting with Pop. 2011. 

Video games with Ryan. Jan 2012

Exploring Bear River Reservoir 2012.

Chris Tomlin concert. 2011. 

Gianna & Mike's wedding.

Amanda and Videl's wedding. 2011. 

family pictures. November 2011.

 

 

--Julie--

Secrets

We all know one.

Or two.

They keep us isolated, solitary in our attempt to hide a revelation from someone. But they are poison.

Understand, I am not referring to the 'sshh! Don't tell Daddy what we got him for Christmas' kind of secrets.

I mean those deep dark confidences we are entrusted with- either by a friend or from ourselves.

Yes, we can know something or experience something and not share it. Out of fear. Spite. Principal.

If left unchecked, these seemingly innocent or long-forgotten little secrets can give the devil just enough foothold to warp our judgment.

 

"No one will understand."

"It was so long ago"

"It doesn't matter."

"It's not really a secret."

"No one cares."

"It's none of anyone else's business."

 

These are all fallacies the Prince of the Air conjures to keep us from living in true redemptive freedom.

We keep our feelings from someone because we don't want to hurt them. Meanwhile this wedge starts to form between you and a person, over a probably trivial 'secret'.

We keep our own confidences, to protect our image - and prevent any true, meaningful and worthwhile relationships.

 

What if someone knew your secrets? What if the very person that you think you are protecting, is keeping a deeper, darker secret from you?

What if exposure could lead to freedom, acceptance, and healing?

 

Would anyone drink that kool-aid?

 

I'll start:

I thought it was just a cry for attention.

I thought he just ran off, like he used to, and would turn up, like he always did.

I dragged my feet getting there because I thought that he didn't deserve the attention.

I thought I knew.

Who knows what could have been, had I been there 5 minutes sooner?

Who knows how long he had been gone, or if I could have made a difference in the outcome of his desperate act?

I can live with the questions.

I can live with his result.

But what I can't live with is the cloud of silent torment constantly raining on every bright moment of every day, because I feel guilty.

And I don't have to.

If I can expose this yoke, bring it to the attention of those who love me, maybe I don't have to carry it anymore.

Maybe now that I have 'told' on myself, revealed my own dark secret, I am no longer a slave to its powers of guilt, isolation and destruction?

Can I be free?

 

Without this rancid rotten lie hanging over me, like a noose wanting to rob my life from freedom, I can breathe.

 

The truth is no one will ever understand, completely.

The truth is no one can know what might have been.

But...TRUTH is that it's ok that no one will 'get it' entirely. It's ok to wonder-without guilt.

And it is ok to go on living, out in the open.

Exposed.

Revealed.

It's ok to be authentic, without a veil of secrets protecting me.

Because these secrets prevent true healing.

 

A healing I am desperate for. 

Hope

A short time ago (and I mean short in relation to years) God wrote an affinity on my heart for the epistle of James.

And by affinity, I mean obsession.

And by obsession, I mean I devoured commentary after commentary, scouring paper after essay, seeking to know all that can be known.

Little did I know then, that these 5 chapters would sustain my faith.

108 verses contained my life's story, my hope in redemption, and my drive to move beyond grief.

 

It opens with a punch to the chest, knocking the wind from the proverbial sails of lukewarm Christians everywhere. The NASB translates verses 2-4 like this: "(2) Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, (3) knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. (4) And let endurance have it's perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing."

Ouch.

"WHEN."

A promise that life will, indeed, be full of trials, of various degrees, kinds, and durations.

"JOY"

A fruit of the Spirit. Not to be confused with happiness.

"LET"

Shows that the process is hands-on, offering a choice to participate.

"COMPLETE"

Whole. Entire. Fulfillment.

 

This nugget of Truth does not stand alone, it's cousin found in Romans, chapter 5: "(3) ...and not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance (4) and perseverance proven character, and proven character hope, (5) and hope does not disappoint because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us."

 

So one can surmise that hope can be and should be the silver lining. The goal. Hope comes after the storm. And hope comes from God.

Christian living is a process - one that we can be refined by, or one that we can rebuke and die by. Since my obvious choice is to live through the Refiner's fire, I have resolved to "let" this process have it's course, and vacuum up every crumb of wisdom I can find in it. Let this trial propel me to conform to the image of Jesus, the Messiah. Let this testing of my faith teach me to endure, persevere.

 

The Christian disposition doesn't reflect reality. We too often look to Jesus as a soft of Band-Aid, a cure-all. A promise that life will greatly improve with Salvation, and after ever harried prayer whispered when faced with misfortune.

We overlook the abundance of Scriptural proof that "life" on earth will actually get harder - from the standpoint of our comfort level, the closer we walk with God. Our uninhibited faith in Jesus as Savior is meant to propel us from this comfort level, into a Christ-like suffering.

Please don't misinterpret this for martyrdom.

 

I cling to hope. Hope that I will eventually cry less. Hope that I will see my brother in Heaven.

Hope that I will be found doing that which God calls me to, daily, as I tread the murky trials of life on earth.

Hope that the suffering will end.

Hope that God will sustain me, right now, in an hour, tomorrow, and beyond.

 

My prayer is that as I maneuver this trial called grief, I will be refined by it not defined by it.

 

I will not lose my perspective on hope.
--Julie--

To the masses

Scattered through pages of countless grief books, you will find a common theme: suicide is unexplainable.

There is no "right" and no "wrong" way to grieve a suicide.

There is no way to explain to someone who isn't a survivor, how this brand of loss feels.

The survivors of suicide are unique. The utter devastation they have lived through unites them, millions strong. The loss is radical- incomprehensible, even, on some levels. Death by car accident, sickness, and old age are entirely different, and someone who has not ever experienced the anguish of losing a loved one to suicide will never be able to understand.

 

I get all this.

But living in the fast-paced age we are in, slow healing is hard. Especially with the 'get over it' front most people conjure.

It makes my stomach ache to explain to someone who isn't a SOS (survivor of suicide) why I am crying, why I can't 'get over it', why I still have bad days 11 weeks later, why I can't let go, say goodbye, or move on. And truth be told, it makes me resent the person for even assuming that one day I will wake up and go back to normal. It makes me literally shake with silent anxiety to be around people who just expect me to be happy.

I will never be the way I once was.

Let me say that again: I AM FINDING A NEW NORMAL.

My life is divided into two distinct areas, a thick black line drawn across the timeline of my life. "Before" and "After".

I may never be interested in the things that used to thrill me. I may never enjoy things I previously favored. I may not ever be able to have a conversation without crying.

And all that is ok.

Coming to the realization that my life is forever 'different' was not the hard part. The hard part is realizing that I will lose relationships and friendships that I poured life into, because there is no attempt made to understand my new reality.

There is little compassion.

 

Some day, I will smile. And I will laugh.

Then, because my life is governed by the vicious cycle of human emotion, I will cry.

And that is just how it is going to be.

I'm ok with that.

If you care for me, you should be ok with that, too.

 

So, to the masses who are lucky enough not to be a suicide survivor, let me issue this insight:

if you want to be a friend, don't expect normalcy.

It's a hallow illusion for someone like me.

 

--Julie--

Painting

If you had to paint your feelings, what would it look like?
My answer: every color of the rainbow on a crumpled up and ripped piece of paper 

Justice, my 7 year old daughter, asked to paint. Then she asked me to paint with her. 

I didn't know what to paint, so she told me to "paint what I'm feeling". 

That's how I came up with this: 

I feel everything and nothing all at once.

I feel crumpled up and ripped and holy- missing parts. 

Relieved that Ryan is in Heaven.

Sad because I'm not. 

Angry because he left. 

Happy because I will see him again.

Pissed off at people who took advantage of him. 

Restless because I don't know what to do next.

Guilty that I couldn't save him. 

Bitter because he didn't let me help.

Tired of crying. 

Afraid that I don't cry enough. 

Irritated that I think so much. 

Jealous of people who will never know this pain.

Overwhelmed with well-wishers asking me how I am.

 Shattered because no one seems to really care.

 

Exhausted. Fed up. Dismayed at the lack of control. 

Confused, hurt.

Proud that I got to be his sister, even for a while. 

Devastated that I failed my parents. 

Like I said, I feel it all.

And nothing.

Like I want to zone out and sleep for 5 years. 
But also like I want to run a marathon.

 I don't know.... Maybe God will reveal something profound in that. 

I've heard quite frequently lately that God pours out passion through pain.

So I guess I'm along for the ride... Let's see where this leads.

 

--Julie--

Grief

That word seems so foreign.

Even the definition doesn't make sense: "obsolete. Grievance, deep poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement, a cause of such suffering, an unfortunate outcome. Disaster, mishap, misadventure..." (Webster's Online).

 

It just doesn't compute in my brain.

 

Is what I am feeling really "grief"? Does this anguish qualify?

Does this gigantic hole in my heart get to be defined by such a small, feeble word?

A word that has been strewn about, even on comic strips for decades?

GRIEF.

 

No. There has to be more to it than these 5 letters convey. My heart and soul scream out at the injustice of this word. No! I am not experiencing "grief". I am smack-dab in the middle of utter and complete desolation. Despair. Uncomfortable loneliness.

 

I am walking through the narrow valley, the valley of the shadow of death. Cloaked in darkness and surrounded by strange sounds that make my heart skip a beat. Armed with a Light that I cannot seem to aim at the shaky ground. Surrounded by deafening silence.

 

In my mind's eye, I can see where I came from. I still experience flashbacks of that fateful day. I still smell dust and death. I still feel the cold, dead skin under my lips in a final kiss goodbye.

In my heart, I can see where I am going. Glorious redemption. Peace and sanctuary. I can almost taste the sweet honey and feel cool air of the very breath of Life that awaits all those who call upon Jesus.

 

But, neither backwards nor forwards, is where I am, right now.

I am here.

And I miss my brother.

--Julie--