Conflict

I've been dragging my feet with this post, because my last one seemed to be a little more offensive than intended. But to be really, brutally honest, I'm sure this one will be worse.

 

Because there is a fine line between total honesty and being offensive. A line I skirt way too often than completely necessary. Or maybe it is necessary.

 

Everyone should be free to grieve in their own way, as long as they don't physically hurt themselves or others. Sometimes the realist in me wants to scream at all of the fake grief floating around out there for my brother. From those people who claim they knew him. Those people who sport the ribbon as if they suffer. Those people who post pictures minutes after I do, who mock my utter devastation by crying out for attention and exploiting the memory of my dead brother.

Nothing NOTHING pierces my heart deeper than seeing the photos and posts with the tag lines like "you were like a brother to me, Ryan."

SHUT UP!!!

 

Ryan IS my brother! MY brother. There were only TWO of us, me and him.

 

Trust me, this cross I bear is not glamorous. There isn't some fantastic support system in place, where people call me regularly to check on me. On the contrary, this road is lonely. Most of the attention is negative- people telling me to 'get over' it and 'move on'...

(not all - there are a select few who show me tenderness and love)

I don't want the calls anyways- I can't really talk about how I feel with people who cannot begin to understand where I've been and what I've seen- but that's a whole 'nother can of worms.

 

 But the compassionate heart inside me wants to cut my tongue off when I try to choke these words out.

If that is what you need to do to feel attention, pretend to cry over someone who isn't around anymore to set the record straight, go ahead - but don't cry to me.

If what you need is to cry to the people who hurt the worst, then maybe you really are suffering.

But I will not bend over backwards to accommodate your tears.

I can barely see through my own blurred vision, enough to function at a minimum-output level.

I do my best to cover the sleepless nights with caffeine, and the permanent heartache with a smile.

I don't have the strength in my soul to lift you from the fog you claim is grief.

I am in the muck, praying my own way out.

 

So grieve, fake grievers.

Just leave me any my family out of it.

 

--Julie--