Tonight was the first ever fundraiser for the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund. I don't know what to think. I am humbled and overwhelmed by the support from family and friends, and at the same time I am angry with people who didn't show up. I don't want your money- I just want to know that you believe in this cause too.
In some ways, this whole thing just seems so wrong. It is wrong. Ryan, you should be here. I shouldn't have to be doing this. WHY COULDN'T YOU SEE HOW IMPORTANT YOU WERE? This silence torments me down to my core.
I hate bipolar. I hate it. HATE. I struggle to even find the word 'hate' appropriate. Maybe loathe. Despise.
I want to murder it. I want to kill it so forcefully, that it will take the rest of the mental illnesses with it to the pits of hell.
I guess that's what I am trying to do with the Ryan Fund. I want revenge on the mental illness that stole my brother. My best friend. My Bubbo.
I need so badly to hear him say that he is proud of me.
So often, growing up and even until this past April, Ryan was a source of true validation. He would never criticize my efforts. It didn't matter if I was puking during a Half Marathon, completing another Bible Study or learning a new craft. Ryan was proud of me. If I lost a pound, or could eat 12 Taco Bell tacos. If I wrote an essay, or finally figured out how to lock the screen rotation on my iPhone, Ryan was proud of me.
I know my mom is proud of me, but sometimes unconditional love and support is a little lackluster. It's like a failsafe. It's always there, unchanging and unwavering. But this support was different. Ryan never HAD to say it. He chose to, to make me smile. He wanted me to know that he loved me for me. For what I was doing. For who I am. For what I want to be, someday.
To everyone who came out to Rick's tonight, thank you from the bottom of my broken heart. I wish I could show you all just what it means to me that you were there.
Sincerely.
--Julie--
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