I'm Angry

I'm angry. And I'm surprised that I'm angry. I haven't felt anger over this particular issue for a good five years, if not a decade.

I'm pissed off that my brother is dead. And my mom. And my dad. I was thinking about them today, and just having a little bit of general melancholy. The problem is that when the melancholy sets in, I'm not always sure who I'm melancholy for. Jackson? Mom? Dad? So it turns into a mourning session for all three, and that puts me into a tailspin. And then I sometimes feel guilty that I miss one more than the others, as if maybe I didn't love one of them enough. Having three bastard children of grief is pretty darn exhausting. I can't decide who's the neediest at any given moment, so I just bathe all three of them in sorrow. Kind of like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

Anyway... my point today is that I'm mad. I keep repeating to myself, "It's not FAIR." (As if death should only affect those who deserve it? Would that be no one or everyone?) It's not fair that my brother is gone, and didn't get to live a long life. Twenty-six years is too damn short. Seriously. I know he packed a lot into those 26 years, but come ON. Twenty-six is never enough. What about the trips he didn't get to take? The wars he didn't get to fight? (He was in the Army and disappointed that he didn't see combat.) What about the baseball games he missed, the songs that came out on the radio after he died that he never heard? What about the holidays and the birthdays and the nieces and nephews? What about being there when Mom and Dad died? (Mary and I could have really used him then!) What about the marathons he didn't run and the beers he didn't brew? IT'S NOT FAIR.

Sometimes I wish lives were a commodity that could be bought or traded for this specific purpose. I'd love to take the unappreciated life that a suicidal person decided wasn't worthy and swap it with my brother's. Wouldn't that make more sense? Give the life you don't want to someone who DOES want it. Everybody ends up happy. Ha.

For the last 12 years, I've been through all stages of grief: denial, acceptance, bargaining, blah, blah, blah. And I've hit the anger too, but it wasn't one of the stages I stayed in as long as some of the others. After some in-depth counseling, I was finally able to come to terms with my grief. I came to accept it as a part of my life that was just going to be there until I died. My grief was painful, but also a great motivator and a great teacher. (Twelve years ago, I would have never used those words to describe it! That shows you how much I've grown.) I have learned to live with it, and learned to live with the pity and sympathy that people pass my way when they hear my awful history. I've learned not to offend people by talking about my grief too much. I keep it to myself, and only bring it up every so often. (Although by reading this blog, you'd think I talk about it ALL THE TIME. I've been writing about my deceased family a lot!)

But for some reason today, the anger bubbled back up through the acceptance that I've formed like a callous after so many years. My anger kind of surprised me. Who knew I was still pissed off?

And just now, as I'm writing about it and getting it out of my head, the anger is dissipating somewhat. I still feel it a bit between my shoulder blades, but it's more like a "would you look at that" feeling. I'm saying to myself, "Huh. Guess you are a little pissed off. And who wouldn't be? You just go on ahead being mad and soak it in. Cry some tears because you're right: it ISN'T fair. It sucks. Yeah. It sucks."

And there's not much else to say about that. It sucks. I miss him. And her. And him. Which baby should I attend to today?