Shelli wrote an emotional entry about her grief over losing her father and how she senses him with her sometimes. It got me to thinking – and feeling – so after writing a novel of a comment on her blog post, I came over here to my own space to write. I know that it’s been 3 1/2 years since Matt died. But really? There’s no timer attached to grief and there are times… like tonight… that I need to write about him. This is probably not going to be a short entry, but if you decide to stick around and read it anyway, please bear with me as I try to muddle through the thoughts and feelings that her entry provoked.
My brother was diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder, Schizo-Affective Disorder, and Psychosis in August of 1999. He was 13 years old at the time and my parents had agreed to let him spend the night by himself while they took me to Denver to fly to my biological father’s home in Connecticut for the first time. We had family on, almost literally, every block in this small town that were going to be checking on him and my parents trusted him to adhere to the strict ground rules they laid down for him. It was just an over-night trip and they were going to be heading back first thing in the morning from Denver (a four hour drive) as I had an early flight.
What they didn’t know when they made this decision, was that Matt had been calling a suicide hotline consistently all summer long. That he was rapid-cycling from mania to depression and back again. That he had only slept about 3 hours in two months. And that the authorities, along with Mental Health and Social Services in this town, knew about the calls he had been making.
That night, Matt was caught in the throes of the manic side and combined with the delusions he was experiencing and the voices he was hearing, it was… not good.
He dressed in all black and put a mask over his face. Then proceeded to break into several homes in this little town. He didn’t hurt anyone, but he did do some really stupid things that made no sense. Like stealing a remote control and burying it under a tree. Stealing a telephone and stashing it beneath a park bench. Carving up a wood floor in someone’s kitchen. Things like that.
After each incident, Matt would call 9-1-1; I think he knew he needed help, but was unable to stop so he was hoping someone would catch him.
Eventually, they did.
And my parents received a phone call at the home of some friends where they were spending the night at 4:00am that sent them speeding back to Mxr. He had been put into protective custody and was being transferred to a mental institution in Pueblo for further evaluation. Because after the cop that caught up to him, threw him on the ground and ripped off his mask, the officer sat back in complete shock and said, “Matt… what in the hell are you doing?!”
In a small town, everyone knows everyone and our family has lived here for a very long time. This cop knew my parents and knew how we were raised. They knew we would get our butts whooped if we messed up and so on.
When Matt answered saying, “the voices in my head told me to do it!” Let’s just say that the officer was stunned at best and knew they had a serious problem.
I was in Connecticut when all of this went down and my parents refused to go into detail about what was going on while I was out there. I only found out when they picked me up at the airport two weeks later and Matt wasn’t with them.
What followed was months of hard times.
My mom fell into a deep depression because she was blaming herself. My dad was still the trash man at the time and was working 16 hour days. But when he was home, on top of the ever-present tension in the air, there was either arguing between him and my mom… or cold silence.
Bad went to worse when my mom was diagnosed with fibroid tumors in her uterus and multiple cysts on her ovaries and had to have a complete hysterectomy. She had always longed for more children and hoped to have another one day. On top of the hormonal changes and being thrown into surgical menopause, she had yet another crippling emotional issue thrown at her.
Due to complications of her surgery, my mom was on bed-rest for six weeks when she was finally able to come home. I was a freshman in high school at the time and was taking some heavy classes, including Honors English and two Science classes. But I had to step in and try to fill my mother’s very big shoes. At barely 15 years old, my day consisted of going to school, coming home, taking care of my mom’s needs, cooking dinner, washing dishes, doing laundry, watching my little sister, helping her with her homework, cleaning the house, getting her into bed, and then finally sitting down to do my own homework. Often times, I wouldn’t get into bed until 1:00am or later.
Then my brother came home and he was on some hardcore psychiatric medications. He walked around like a zombie the vast majority of the time and my mom, who had recovered from her sugery by then, was being so tightly held in depression’s grip, that she was unable to really do anything. And so he became my responsibility as well.
Fast forward about a month, into December, and my mom gets a phone call from the Littleton Police department around 7:00pm one freezing cold, winter, night. My dad, Ashley, Thomas (who was there at the time), and I, were all watching my mother’s face as she half-yelled, “WHAT?!” and jumped up to start pacing. I don’t recall what parts of the conversation she repeated, only that when she got off the phone and hollered for my brother… he was gone. He knew what was going on and he left — wearing only a thin jacket, shorts, a t-shirt, and shoes with no socks.
Apparenty, part of the delusions he had been suffering from, convinced him that he had talked to the two Columbine shooters in a chat room and told them where to buy the guns and how to make some bombs. None of which was true — but he absolutely believed it. To the point of emailing the Littleton Chief of Police with a confession to that effect.
That night, Ashley, Thomas, myself, and half the town – including every law enforcement officer we have – walked and/or drove around on a man-hunt for my brother.
It wasn’t until 11:00pm that he finally came home. The three of us had walked in the door only minutes before and I was in the kitchen, running water through the coffee pot to make hot cocoa for all the people searching for Matt, when I heard the commotion. Less than two minutes after he walked in the front door, our house was surrounded by flashing lights and cops.
I remember watching the Chief of Police come in through the door, followed by what seemed like an army of cops. He stood there, tall, silent… watching my mom rub Matt’s legs and get socks on his feet to try and warm him up. I remember the note of hysteria that entered her voice when, after asking Matt why he took off, he said, “because the voices told me to, mom!” And she wigged out saying, “NO! NO! NO! MATT THERE ARE NO! VOICES!” It seemed like slow motion as I watched the Chief step forward and take out his handcuffs. I knew what was coming so I grabbed my sister, who was standing next to me, and pulled her into my arms, burying her face in my chest so that she wouldn’t see Matt get put into handcuffs and taken away.
I remember my mom sobbing as she and my dad gave last-minute instructions to my grandma who was going to stay with us while they went down to the jail to figure out what to do next.
That time, Matt was only in the mental hospital for about a week and was home in time for Christmas.
But it was a heavy-hearted Christmas that year. The “D” (divorce) word had begun to be thrown around the house like a frisbee and when we would ask either parent if they were going to divorce, the answer was always an, “I don’t know.”
At the beginning of the year, my mom decided that it would be best if she moved out for a while. Matt was living in this “rehabilitative” program in Denver. Social Services had decided that would be beneficial to him and my parents had to agree to it if they were going to continue paying for Matt’s medications, counseling, etc. They had no choice — we didn’t have a lot of money anyway and Matt’s meds for a single month came to about $600.
I thought that with my brother gone… and now my mom… life would become “normal” and “happy” again. I was incredibly angry with both of them. I blamed Matt for all the troubles and heartaches that were a part of daily life back then. And I blamed my mom for not being “strong enough” to deal with it.
But it wasn’t better. Or normal. Or happy.
The day my mom moved out, my dad came into the kitchen where I was standing at the refridgerator figuring out what to cook for dinner and he laid his red-rimmed eyes on my shoulder and bawled like a baby. I had seen my dad cry exactly one time before then… and I felt my heart shatter. My dad, always the strong one… was crying on my shoulder. I had no idea what to do so I just hugged him and let him cry.
But I felt anger, and even hatred, come to a boiling point for my mom. And for Matt.
Toward the end of the school year, my mom moved back in. With counseling, she was able to see that she was NOT to blame and Matt’s illness was not a reflection on her as a mother. And because of this, she was able to find forgiveness and shed the dark cloak of depression. She and my dad started working on rebuilding their marriage and they have never been more happy, more secure, or more in love as they are now. Their marriage is one that grows stronger and deeper as the years pass and I am so greatful to them for setting the example that they have.
Even though I was over-joyed that my mom had come home, deep down I was absolutely furious with her and it finally came out one day. I had been giving her the “silent treatment” unless something was spoken directly to me and I had no choice but to respond. I don’t even remember what it was now, but at the time? It was enough to open the flood gates and I started screaming at her and crying and shaking. When it was all out and I was spent, she pulled me close and hugged me until my tears dried and the shaking subsided. And then we talked. For the first time since all of it had begun, nine months prior, we talked.
It’s only been in recent years that we’ve gotten extremely close. I think part of it was simple “teenage girl” attitude that her parents don’t know anything. Part of it was that I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. I mean, Matt wasn’t cured by any means. My security had been deeply rattled and I was afraid to trust.
She and I have a great relationship now and I can truly say that I have forgiven her for everything and actually mean it which is a wonderful thing.
I know by now you’re probably wondering what on earth all this had to do with Matt and my grief. But hang with me here, I really am getting to it.
You see, even though I had forgiven my mom… my brother was a whole other story. I had a hard time with her, but on some level, I think it was easier to forgive because I seen her as just another victim of Matt’s actions and sickness.
With each passing incident, I grew more angry and bitter toward him. That cold night in December was not the last time that the cops were banging on our door or calling the house (though it was the last time he was sent to a mental hospital because of his actions). I despised him for being sick. For being different. I resented every time I had to stand up for him in high school the following year when he became a freshman. It’s a small town and there were rumors out the ying-yang about him and our family. While I wouldn’t let anyone else mess with him, I still hated him for every whispered word and not-so-subtle glances sent our/my way. For the questions. For the pitying looks. For what we had been through in the past year.
It got to the point that we couldn’t hardly speak a civil word to one another. I called him a “psychotic juvenille delnquent” and he called me a “fat f***ing b*tch or c*nt” and so on.
There was SIX YEARS of this. Sometimes, we would push each other so far and so hard, that I’d be up in his face and he’d push me away and I’d go flying into a wall. Only to go after him like a crazy person, convinced he wasn’t just trying to get me out of his face, but was trying to make me hit the wall.
It was horrible, to say the least.
We only found forgiveness on December 19, 2004* when my parents, Matt, and I all sat down to talk after our latest fight. My parents had decided enough was enough and we had a family conference, sans my sister, in their bedroom. Both of us got things off our chest. We cleared the air. We talked and we cried and we hugged. And by the time we walked out of there, both of us had truly forgiven one another.
After that, whenever I came home on the weekends from college, Matt and I would stay up late playing Backgammon. We would watch movies until 4:00 in the morning as we were both the “night owls” of the family. We would joke around and he would call me during the week just to see if I was coming up that weekend or not.
In short, we became friends.
And I had that… for three months. Three short, wonderful, months before he was taken from us.
I truly do not know what I would have done by now if that forgiveness had not been there between the two of us. I’ve wrestled with guilt over things that were said and done in those six, bleak, dark, angry, years enough as it is… much less if hadn’t obtained closure over the past.
So how does this tie in with Shelli’s entry, and thus the entire point of this post?
Well…
Shelli still senses her dad’s presence and smells cigarette smoke when she does. Both my mom and my sister smell my brother — sometimes when we’re not even talking about him. It will linger at times and be only a quick whiff at others. I, myself, have never smelled him.
But I do have extremely vivid, real, dreams about him. A lot of the time, we’re just sitting on the couch having a conversation and laughing.
I think that I serve a God who loves me. Who loves you. Who loves all of us. And although he looks at death as “precious” because one of his saints are coming home (Psalms 115:16), He also created us and He knows our pain. He shares it. As such, He had made provision for that grief to keep us comforted in our times of mourning. It clearly states that, “to be absent from the body, is to be present with Christ” so I know he’s in Heaven. But I also think that, every once in a while, God pulls back the veil that separates Heaven from earth and gifts us with part of our loved ones to remind us that, not only does He love us enough to do that, but that our loved ones are never far from us.
Whether it’s a vivid dream that leaves you with a smile on your face when you wake up, or getting to smell them, or even sensing their presence… it is a gift from God above. And we should treasure it and be thankful for it.
So I do. And I am. Even when the time-bomb that is our grief, explodes from a dull ache that is always present in my heart, to a raging pain that makes it hard to breathe.
If you made it through this entry, I thank you. And hopefully, you understand now a little better about why this has been so hard for me to write. In the four years that I’ve been blogging, I’ve never gone into detail about this. But it’s been good for me to get it off my chest. Perhaps, now, you’ll understand a little better as to why I am the way that I am. Be it good, or be it bad, this is one of the things in my life that has helped define who I am. Why I’m a caretaker and a nurturer. Why I worry so much about my sister and my parents about certain things. And why, on top of everything else, I have so much anxiety about traveling to Connecticut for the holidays.
I mean, the last time I was there, my entire world shattered. Granted, the pieces were picked back up and put together in a way that made them fit even better than before, but it was still an excruciatingly painful time in my life. One that I don’t like to dwell on or think about too often.
Nevertheless, “all things work to the good for those that love God” (Romans 8:28 – our family scripture). If we hadn’t gone through what we did back in 1999, I doubt very much that my family would be glued together like we are now — even in the down times.
Life moves on and we must move along with it. Which means that I can’t put off trips to Connecticut out of fear. And I can keep my eyes on the future, without forgetting my brother. I’ll carry a part of him wherever I go… as we all will. As will each of you reading this, that has lost a loved one.
So… carpe diem! 
*I only remember the exact date because it was my parent’s anniversary.
