You were 26 when you took your life.
You would’ve been 30 in January.
I’ll be turning 26 in April.
We’ll be the same age.
And then, I’ll grow older.
And older and older.
And you’ll stay the same age.

Our mother was not a nice person. You personally saved my life several times from her.
And I never got to tell you, “Thank you”.
I ran away from home and it took me nearly a decade of searching to find you again.
We chatted and you said you would call me the next day.
You never did.
Instead you made the choice to end your suffering.

And I feel like the villain. If it meant bringing you back to a life of mental pain, I would make that choice if it meant I wouldn’t have to live in pain. It’s a selfish feeling. And I embrace that selfishness.

And the anger.

I’m angry you made that choice, as if I didn’t want to make that choice dozens of times. But I didn’t. I stuck to life out of pure spite, and I’m glad I did. I got help…
And how do I even finish that thought?
I wish you sucked it up and suffered as I did?
I wish you got help?
I’m glad you’re not in pain?

That’s the hard thing about suicide.
I know it’s not socially acceptable to say it’s “selfish”, but it is all the way around. Forget me, what about our other brothers and sisters? You had a daughter who’ll never know her father. You were newly engaged to someone who loved you more than life itself.

And then the selfishness circles back around. How could I want you to live in pain? To live through the heartache and mental pain of life? You were hurting, how could I ask you to continue in that?

But I would’ve, if you would’ve asked.
Because I’m selfish.
And I miss my brother.