courage, Guest Posts, healing, loss

My Brother Died & Yet He’s Everywhere.

October 31, 2013

By Cindy Lamothe.

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He slipped a Marlboro in his mouth and blew out a big white puff that circled around us like a cloud. It was just one of those nights when there was no wind but it was so cold you’d hug your knees while sitting on the pavement. Our hideout.

Our not-so-secret, secret place.

It was midnight, and we were outside the house and sitting on the curb of the road. One of my favorite things to do. Our house was in the suburbs, laid between large houses with big lawns. The ones that are loved and taken care of. Except for ours, with overgrown shrubs, weeds, and cigarette buds in the driveway.

The black sheep of the neighborhood.

The perennial mutts. Half White, half Latinos. The messed-up family.

“When we grow up, I want us to live in two houses next to each other, with white picket fences separating us. Have our kids grow up together and watch stupid movies, be crazy, and all that good shit. Yeah, it’s gonna be a great life Cindy, just wait, I promise.”

I was 16 when my older brother said these words to me.

Four years later, he killed himself with a handgun.

Jay promised to always look out for me, to have my back, to always prepare my favorite deli sandwiches when I was feeling down, and buy me cappuccinos on rainy days. That was the kind of person he was. Though stereotypically speaking, you wouldn’t think so.

A walking contradiction, tough on the outside, goofy on the inside. Full of tattoos, a buzzed haircut (huge and frizzy when grown.) An experimental drug user, a loving friend, and the kind of person you wish you knew.

I adored my brother.

The one from another mother. The outcast. The unlovable one.

He didn’t care if you had a penny or a million to your name. If you were the drunk on the street or the president, he’d talk to you the same. It didn’t matter if you were the popular kid or the fuck-up, the nerd, or the jock. He was your friend.

Jay was a mechanic. He could take things apart and put them back together again. He had a passion and a talent for this. Rearranging nooks and bolts until a car was up and running like nothing had ever happened to it.

He’d take the unfixable and make it whole again. Like that time I called him late at night to say goodbye.

I’d taken 30 sleeping pills. The tears in his voice pleaded with me, softly asking why? “Cindy, why did you do this to me? I thought we were in this together. It’s going to be all right. I promise. It’ll get better. I’m getting in my car and coming for you right now…don’t fall asleep.”  He tried to fix me. Except it wasn’t the first time. My third attempt to be exact. The scariest one. We’d already had some experiences before. Suicide experts.

When I was thirteen I found him passed out on the sofa, with Jimmy Hendrix and Curt Cobain posters covering his walls. Fast asleep. Only he wouldn’t wake up. I watched my dad shake him. Nothing. The ambulance came and went. A trip to the hospital where he laid like an angel with wires coming out of his nose. The “oh god, please don’t take him, I promise to always look after him.”

We had the routine down. We knew the drill. Like a broken record from a playbook. That same year I’d be the next to watch my stomach getting pumped, and have a tube so far down my throat I’d gag for breath. Nasty black liquid in my mouth. Enough to fill the emptiness of my soul. And I remember one of the male interns staring at me the way you watch a puppy getting put down. With both pity and shock.

The “why?” in his blue eyes.

Only there are no cookie cutter answers, none to explain how much you hate yourself, how pathetic and worthless you feel. That you are invisible and have no friends. My parent’s fight all the time…I’ve been to over 10 schools in my life…lived between countries…my little brother’s handicapped…I feel ugly. How do you explain dysfunction to the ‘normals’? The ones with perfect families who know how to take care of their lawns.

No. It was up to Jay and me to depend on each other. We knew our story, our brokenness. He was my unconventional role model; I looked up to him, his wild spirit and humor. My drug-addict hero.

We ate French-fries at midnight in abandoned parking lots just to ramble on about life and our hopes and dreams. At some point I’d tell him about wanting to be a writer, to live in Paris and visit café’s around the world. He wanted to visit NYC and party in Las Vegas. Jay was the rebel, the thrill seeking risk taker. He was larger than life, and knew how to live fully. That wasn’t me. I wanted a life full of beauty and awe. Naturally we became best friends.

I was 20 when my brother killed himself.

I remember the movie I watched before being told the news. A cartoon we used to watch as kids, “The Great Mouseketeer.” One moment you’re laughing at childhood memories and the next your heart gets raped beyond repair.

Because that’s what happens when you’re told that your favorite person in the world has shot himself to death.  Screaming so hard that the street turns quiet. Your fists punching the walls. Hell on earth. And you realize that your worst nightmare has nothing on grief. You’re alone. Completely, devastatingly more alone than you’ve ever been.

The first few years after his death, I couldn’t tell anyone the terrible, dirty word: suicide.

I couldn’t even tell myself. Maybe if I didn’t say it out loud it would stop being true. Because everyone knows that when you say something, it becomes real. This isn’t a dream. It’s the real-life wham bam, your brother’s dead, thank you ma’am. And no amount of Paxil or mood stabilizers, and sleeping pills…will bring him back.

What they don’t tell you is how sick happiness makes you when you’re in grief. Sick to your stomach. Happy couples, people laughing, life going on. As if the world hadn’t stopped the minute your heart did. This is not the romanticized version of suicide ladies and gentlemen. This is the gritty, hardcore, punch in your gut loss. The version where you don’t move on in a few months, or even a few years.

I invented a story to tell people, he was driving one night and was driving too fast and crashed into an 8 wheeler. Killed instantly. He died the way he wanted. Racing his beloved Honda. The perfectly polite, don’t pity me, elevator pitch bullshit.

That story became a part of me. Like the awkward freckle on my eyebrow, or that pesky rash I can’t seem to get rid of. I couldn’t let others know that I had failed as a sister. Because that’s what happens when someone you love kills himself. In your mind you become responsible for their unhappiness, their depression, their decision.

It didn’t help that my last words to Jay were “No, I don’t want to see you.” or that it had been over a year since we had last talked, because I was still mad at him for letting his girlfriend use my car while I was living in El Salvador.

I was prideful. Yes.

And when I happened to be back in the US and he called asking to see me…asking me to reconsider. I refused. And it’s a lie to say that this event hasn’t filled me with regret. Because no amount of self-help books or quotes about positivity can fill that void.

My brother broke his promises to me.

We’ll never grow up to have those white picket fences, and have our children become best friends. I’ll never eat his amazing deli sandwiches again, or eat french-fries in parking lots at midnight. I won’t hear him laugh or tell me how important I am again. When someone dies, you don’t just lose them, you lose the possibility of being able to fix things. You lose redemption. And all of the dreams you shared with them, the ways you imagined them into your life are gone. Like a wiped hard disk.

I still remember you brother. My black sheep. My unlovable. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I saw you in a dream last night dressed in white, in a place full of love, so much love…you were happy.

In a week I’ll be turning 29, five years older than Jay was when he died. During that time I’ve broken hearts, had my heart broken, made mistakes, been the popular kid, the nerd, the fuck-up. I’ve worn the white hat, the black hat. Traveled the world, dived in before thinking. Risked everything and got burnt. I’ve laughed and cried. Got married to a wonderful man. Become the writer I always wanted to be.

And though I broke my promise to always be there for him. I kept the promises we made on that pavement all those years ago. To live fully. To have the courage to crash and burn and reborn from the ashes. That’s what my brother really taught me. To trust and be kind to myself no matter who the person I was at the time. That was his real message to me. His rebellious and loving spirit.

Here’s the truth about life: each person you love is like a novel. These pages you’ve come to love more than anything might be gone, but the soul is present. So present that it will slowly transform you. Their story never goes away, it lives within you.

My brother’s promises now live through me, and every time I get a whiff of Marlboro cigarettes and potato chips, he’s there. Every time I hear Sublime or watch A Christmas Story, I hear his laughter in my heart.

Every time I see an unlovable, I see my brother. The black sheep, the outcast, the drug addict, the stranger with the frizzy hair.

I see him. Racing through time, like the Honda Civic he once owned.

He’s everywhere.

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Cindy Lamothe is a writer, inspirationalist, and lover of life. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from: The Weeklings this year, The Manifest-Station, Mimosa Lotus, Inspiration for Mind Body, Sweatpants and Coffee, among others. Cindy’s quirky personality and passion for travel has led her down many strange paths, harnessing her appreciation for beauty and innate wildness. Get to know her on Facebook, Twitter and her personal website crlamothe.com, where she encourages others to let go of fear and live authentically.

Jennifer Pastiloff, Beauty Hunter, is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Check out jenniferpastiloff.com for all retreat listings and workshops to attend one in a city near you. Next up: South Dakota, NYC, Dallas, Kripalu Center For Yoga & Health, Tuscany. She is also leading a Writing + The Body Retreat with Lidia Yuknavitch Jan 30-Feb 1 in Ojai (sold out) as well as Other Voices Querétaro with Gina Frangello, Emily Rapp, Stacy Berlein, and Rob Roberge. She tweets/instagrams at @jenpastiloff.

Click to order Simplereminders new book.

Click to order Simplereminders new book.

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29 Comments

  • Reply barbarapotter October 31, 2013 at 10:35 am

    This is beautiful and heartbreaking too. I am so happy that you are here and writing and have a beautiful smile on your face.

    • Reply Cindy Lamothe October 31, 2013 at 12:13 pm

      Thank you Barbara, it was a hard road getting to this point <3

  • Reply Jean October 31, 2013 at 11:26 am

    Cindy,

    What a beautiful tribute to your brother.

    Bless you.

    Sincerely,

    Jean

    • Reply Cindy Lamothe October 31, 2013 at 12:15 pm

      Appreciate that Jean, it means a lot to be able to do that. xoxo

  • Reply Diane October 31, 2013 at 12:06 pm

    This is a beautiful poetic tribute to your brother. It comes at a time when I need it most to share with my best friend who lost her husband in a tragic construction accident. Thank you for sharing!

    Sincerely,
    Diane

    • Reply Cindy Lamothe October 31, 2013 at 12:14 pm

      I’m so glad Diane <3 That's the main reason I wanted to share my story, so that it would heal others. xoxo

  • Reply Kathy S October 31, 2013 at 4:41 pm

    Very moving… Very well written and heart wrenching.

  • Reply tyreneh October 31, 2013 at 7:19 pm

    Such Power in this, in writing, in words, in memories, in the here and now. Power in bonds, separated, but at the same time bonded together for eternity. Powerful keeps coming to my mind. This is full of power like the love you two must still share. Power and Love, what a difference in makes. I will remember these words Cindy, and what they speak. You and your brother are Powerful, and what a difference it can make in this world. Blessings to you.

    • Reply Cindy Lamothe November 1, 2013 at 1:58 pm

      That’s such a heartfelt and beautiful comment you wrote. Thank you for writing it, I feel so grateful at this moment. Sending you much love and light as well xoxo

  • Reply GG November 1, 2013 at 7:24 pm

    I just lost my brother to suicide in March. He was only 33, less than 1 month from his 34th birthday. The part that really hit home for me was “What they don’t tell you is how sick happiness makes you when you’re in grief. Sick to your stomach. Happy couples, people laughing, life going on. As if the world hadn’t stopped the minute your heart did.” Thank you for being brave enough to share such an immensely painful experience.

    • Reply Cindy Lamothe November 2, 2013 at 3:21 pm

      Thank you for sharing about your own loss. I’m so sorry you are going through this as well. My brother also died the same month he would have turned 24. It’s one of those experiences that most people can’t easily relate to, and I’m so glad you found you came across my story. Sending you a virtual hug xx~Cindy

  • Reply Garry November 1, 2013 at 10:05 pm

    All the nagging things on my mind went silent when I started reading this story. This is what great writing is all about. You can’t put it down. A testament to the resiliency of the human spirit. We all make mistakes, but to learn from them and take the positive path, not so much in spite of our mistakes, but because we’ve learned from them, that is what gives us hope. I’m so sorry your brother reached that point of hopelessness, that point of no return. We can wonder if there was something we could have done But, we can only do so much for another soul. Some people are consumed by their demons despite out best efforts to help them and to love them. But if we can learn from them, to honor them in our lives, to carry them along side us through our life; what better tribute is there, what better redemption for the things we might have done. Your story brings to mind that scene in the Titanic when Jack is dying in the water telling Rose she must, “go on,” and live her life to the fullest. The raft is not big enough for both of them so he gets off the raft and supports her as long as he can. Rose took his dying wish to heart and lived a glorious life; probably with him in her thoughts all along the way.

    What are we without love?

    Great stories come straight from the heart, and this one surely did that. I will always think of this story when I see other kids in similar situations. Beautifully told story Cindy.

    • Reply Cindy Lamothe November 2, 2013 at 3:24 pm

      Thank you for your comment Garry, I really like the comparison to the scene in Titanic. You wrote it quite beautifully and with truth. I have learned to carry my brother with me in all moments, the good, the bad, the wonderful and terrible. Your comment is spot on my friend. xoxo

  • Reply Karen November 3, 2013 at 6:14 am

    Your Brother loved you. You loved him. Sometimes we let material things and ‘time taken for granted’ steal precious moments.

  • Reply veronicaraye1 November 4, 2013 at 11:30 am

    This is an amazing story, through all your heartache you’ve shared a beautiful lesson about love and family. I am so grateful to have read this. Thank you Cindy.

  • Reply Vera "Scooter" Severtson November 4, 2013 at 2:28 pm

    I lost my hero dad to suicide in 1996 when he shot himself in my mom’s kitchen; I lost my brother to suicide when he hung himself from a tree right outside my mom’s kitchen… on my son’s 31st birthday. I loved them both and EVERYTHING reminds me of them. My brother was soooooo much like you describe your brother it is eerie. God has a plan… and He is waaaaay bigger than any of this crap. When my dad committed suicide I was overwhelmed with the feeling that he might be in hell and I was grief-stricken. My best friend’s grandma whispered “If God can forgive the things that I have done, then He certainly forgives suicide.” My heart has been at rest since… If we don’t meet on “this side” then I look forward to meeting you and your brother on the “other side”. We have stories knit together that far exceed any stories that we could knit together “here”. Via con Dios, beloved… xoxoxo
    (That is my husband’s picture in the icon)

    • Reply C.R. Lamothe - Writer November 11, 2013 at 5:12 pm

      Vera, that kind of suffering is unbearable, and my heart goes out to you. Thank you for sharing your message with me, and I truly hope someday we meet on “this side” xoxo

  • Reply R November 11, 2013 at 8:15 am

    Cindy, Dear,

    You are on my mind now and I felt like reading your beautiful writing again. You are one of the brightest, most-enlightening souls I have ever met. I have been blessed to have you in my life. I am certain, beyond a doubt, that your brother looks down on you with great pride. Keep spreading your love and touching other souls. xoxo

    • Reply C.R. Lamothe - Writer November 14, 2013 at 1:28 pm

      Love you my friend, thank you!! I’m so blessed to have you in my life also. xoxoxo

  • Reply Lisa Volatile January 30, 2014 at 3:39 pm

    Cindy…….I love your authenticity & I love you. Your words resonated deep within me.You are a true blue real woman with a incredible gift!! I have not spoke to my brother for 10 yrs. (due to mental illness that came to him later in life). I would love to communicate with him, BUT that is not possible. HE will not allow it. So it sure feels like a death……so on some level. I TRULY identify with this. He did not even attend our fathers funeral or viewing when he passed going on 2 yrs.
    But this is about you……your realism & you are now able to face this monster in your life with truth for what it is. Bravo my friend Bravo!! (teary eyed) from your writing <3

    • Reply C.R. Lamothe - Writer January 30, 2014 at 4:55 pm

      Thank you so much Lisa, I am very glad my words resonated with you. And I’m also so sorry to hear about your own brother. Loss is something that is unpredictable in its effects, it doesn’t matter the way it happens. I send you much love and light my friend xoxo

  • Reply umati kumar May 17, 2014 at 7:03 pm

    Cindy–what a beautifully written life/love story! My husband passed away in October 2005 and HE IS EVERYWHERE! I can relate; thank you for sharing. I hope that you believe in a higher power/purpose. Blessings!

    • Reply umati kumar May 17, 2014 at 7:05 pm

      Once again, your writing brings me comfort! Thanks!
      Umati

    • Reply Cindy Lamothe June 18, 2014 at 3:02 pm

      I’m so sorry to hear about your husband, loss can be obliterating, no doubt. But I am glad my story can give you comfort in someway. I wish you so many good and happy things. Appreciate your comment. xoxo

  • Reply sueannkatherine May 19, 2014 at 2:32 pm

    Thank you for the writing you so bravely put out into the world, especially this piece. I have never lost a loved one to suicide but I lost my dad a decade ago to a mysterious place we call ‘death before death’ and though I miss the man he used to be, I am so grateful for the memories that flood my days with light when the darkness threatens to take me down. I so love the line: “Yet he’s everywhere.” Thank you, Cindy.

  • Reply Patricia Saxton June 9, 2014 at 6:53 pm

    My heart wants to hug yours; and your brother’s, whose presence shines all around you. Cindy, this is powerful, brave, brilliant, and beautiful.

  • Reply Stacy Spehar September 13, 2014 at 11:10 am

    Thank you for so eloquently putting into words that which I have been unable to – how witnessing happiness can enlarge our grief . Beautifully written from the heart!

  • Reply My Brother Died & Yet He’s Everywhere | C.R. Lamothe September 20, 2014 at 12:33 pm

    […] My essay originally on The Manifest-Station with Jennifer Pastiloff […]

  • Reply dieser Kerl January 8, 2016 at 2:34 am

    Vollkommen still.

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