My brother’s death is the trump card I hate to play and yet cannot escape anytime someone mentions how much s/he hates Valentine’s Day. I too want it struck from the calendar. Five years ago in the early morning hours police were at my door to inform me of a party gone wrong. Instead of casually making fun of the silly holiday or getting swept up in romantic gestures, it is forever tainted with all the tragic tears that Randy died.
“Time heals all wounds” and “It gets better” are supposed to be hopeful words of comfort, but I find them dismissive and full of crap. Most days I can put on a brave face and carry on, but the anniversary sends all the feelings flooding in. Through lots of therapy and so many kind friends it does get easier, but I am still so mad at the world.
I am mad he got the shit luck of alcoholic genes and was surrounded by a society that cannot comprehend sobriety. I can have gratitude his stupid choices did not kill others. I can be at ease that he is no longer in pain and that I don’t have to worry about him anymore, but I am selfish and I want him here. I am mad he left me.