Grief is a weird thing. It fogs your brain... it makes you hate the cat for having to go to the vet, because why should anyone have to go the vet when my brother is dead? And why are those homeless people alive, but my brother's not? And what did I come into this room to do? What was I supposed to do today?
My mind is full of thoughts of wishing I could be closer to my family, overwhelming waves of guilt that I'm not closer, physically... Thoughts of how stupid drugs are. And what can I do to help other people never, ever do drugs? What else could I have done to help my brother? What's going to happen now? How is my mom ever going to go on? What can I do? What can anyone do? How is my sister? Like really, how is my sister? I need to be there for my sister. Why can't we just move to NJ tomorrow? Would that even help? Why is my stomach so linked to my emotions? This sucks. I hate that people think there's this certain type of person who does drugs.. I hate that anyone might think less of my brother because of his addiction.
One of the last conversations I had with my brother was when I gave him his Christmas present. I almost didn't even give it to him because it seemed so lame. It was an Old Spice gift bag that had deodorant, body wash, shampoo, and body spray. I sat in the car with it before going in to give it to him and I said to Aaron, "How lame is this? I'm giving my brother deodorant? Let's just leave it in the car." But then I thought, well he's staying at Nan's so maybe he needs manly smelling stuff, instead of using Nanny's shampoo. So I gave it to him with the warning that it was probably the lamest gift ever. And when he opened it, you would have thought I had given him like an Xbox or something else awesome. He was SO excited about the bag it was in, and went on and on about how perfect it was. That was my brother. He made you feel good and special. I hope we can all remember him as that.. Everyone talks about his smile, but really I think what people will remember is how he made them smile. My brother knew how to have fun and how to make people laugh.
I hate that he was in so much pain. I hate that we all thought he was doing so well. I hate that he never got a chance to hit rock bottom. He was never arrested. He never got in a car accident. He never stole. He never went to rehab. People who OD go through all this first, right?? How is this possible? Why wouldn't he take me up on my offer and come live out here with me?
I am not sure I should even publish this. I don't want to disrespect my family by posting about what happened, but I don't think my family even cares. I think they want Jesse's story out there... this is what drugs do to you. Jesse always thought he was in control. He didn't want to die. He didn't think he had a problem. He thought he was smart. He told my mom he wasn't like those other people. It started with a legit script for pain for his back. Please, if anyone in the world reads this blog, please be careful with those painkillers. I don't think anyone starts taking them thinking they're going to end up becoming dependent on them. And certainly no one thinks they're going to die from a drug overdose.
Anyway now I'm rambling. But that's whats going on. And I'm trying to get through it.
