"And you are such a fool
To worry like you do
I know it's tough, and you can never get enough
Of what you don't really need now"
To worry like you do
I know it's tough, and you can never get enough
Of what you don't really need now"
My brother wrote today about Mothers Day and what it means to him. It was honest, and brave, and vulnerable. He spoke of her life and her death. He spoke of her struggle and his. He spoke of feelings of deep-rooted guilt around moving away when he did. He shared some of his painful truths.
I'm the youngest of four siblings and he's the oldest. There are nine years between us. I have no real memory of a time when Mom could walk. I remember the walker, the canes, the railings. I vaguely remember a car and lying bored in the back seat on those oh-my-god-so-long drives to Seal Cove to visit relatives, but I don't actually remember her driving or walking to the car. For me, my mother's MS was something I grew up with. For him, it was mostly something that came after. I've written about my mother and my relationship with her many times. I've written of how incredibly much her life and her death have taught me, and how, decades after, my fading memories of her still continue to shape the way I live, the way I love, the way I parent, and so much more. I have shared some painful truths of my own.
And even though our stories intersect, our experiences varied. In recent years, conversation between us has sometimes turned to these differences. I've learned from him about times I was too young to remember; I've shared with him things from what came after he'd left.
I understand why he wrote what he did. He writes for one of the same reasons I often have: sometimes something on the inside needs to be on the outside. To say it's "cathartic" feels like an understatement. Sometimes, it feels like exorcism. Only by taking the pain and holding it up in the daylight does it whither away.
And because I understand this process, and I understand his feeling of guilt, I know that a simple "Well I, for one, forgive you, brother!" is at the same time unnecessary and insufficient. It's not my forgiveness or the forgiveness of our siblings he - or I - requires. He lives in a prison he built himself, and only he can dismantle it, brick by brick. As have I.
But I'm happy to provide what tools I have, based on my own experience, and to share with him my truths, for whatever they are worth.
His guilt resonates within me, with past feelings of my own. I am quite familiar with the helplessness of watching someone suffer with MS, and with the cycles of self-pity (for the things you can't have), anger (for your helplessness to do anything about it), guilt (for being angry, when you're not the real victim here), and depression (because it's about all you're left with). That tangled mess hardens like cement deep down in the soul until you know only that there's this incredible weight you carry with you and you've no idea exactly why or how to get rid of it.
When my mother died I was angry. I was angry and I was lost. It took me about three years to even begin to sort through that vicious anger-guilt-depression mix, and being I had, at 17, staved off the notion of suicide based on my rationalization that it would be to cause my mother yet-more-undeserved-suffering, this untangling came with a dose of wondering whether I should even go on living. (Spoiler: still here!)
What I discovered was the real root of my problem was this: everyone wants someone or something to blame, because the idea of living a life with parameters beyond our control is truly frightening. When you understand that, our motives and the ways we think and act start to make sense. People who are self-destructive in relationships? Control. People who believe in god and a rewarding afterlife? Control. People who believe in the devil? Control. Not my fault, the devil made me do it.
For those of us who don't believe in the supernatural, it becomes a game of who we can blame. Maybe it was your boss at work, or the government with their recent policy changes, or perhaps Becky because she started it all, after all, saying those hurtful things she did, right? And when we can't blame someone else... we can always blame ourselves. I'd been angry at Mom until I was old enough to realize how unfair that was, angry at God until I was old enough to realize how fruitless that was, and then angry at myself for having been angry at Mom or God.
But as 'men of science', as my brother and I consider ourselves, it is difficult to live with the notion that, well, sometimes, SHIT HAPPENS. There's no tidy cause and effect diagram to be constructed. There's just random bullshit.
Sometimes, it's just shit luck. It's not god's fault, or the devil's, or anyone you know. It's not yours. What I was angry at was Multiple Sclerosis, because it's devastating, and not just to the person who has it but to all the family and friends forced to deal with it. And there's no clear path or happy answers. It is a disease as unrelenting as it is cruel, and our mother is not the only one we've watched suffer it.
But I don't have nice, tidy facts to offer. I have only belief and a differing perspective.
Was she sad to see him leave? Maybe. Or maybe it was bittersweet because this woman defined her sense of self as "mother" and there was nothing more important in her life than her children, and there was a pride in seeing them grow up and leave the nest? I can't really say.
He fears perhaps he may not have appreciated her as much as he should have, but I know the way her lessons inform his daily existence, just as they do mine, and there is no better way to appreciate someone passed than to carry them forward in your heart and mind.
On the day my mother died, my brother was the last to arrive from away. He saw her in the afternoon, and then, when I left for supper, she finally passed. I believed then as I believe now that she held on just to see him one last time, and then just a little bit longer for the youngest to be out of the room. She needed to assure herself that we'd be okay without her, that she'd done good, that she could finally stop fighting for life.
I treat that idea as fact, though I have no science to support it. It is one of the very few things in my life I treat as faith.
My brother offered an apology to his family for "not being the son I should have been", but I don't feel I'm owed one. He's done his penance and so have I. Was there a time when I was angry or resentful? Sure. Back at the same time I was angry at myself for whatever I felt I could have or should have done, before I understood that in a very narrow-minded, logic-first way it may not seem sensible to be angry at a disease, but if it's the truth you're after, that's what you're left with. Back at a time when I didn't understand the wisdom of The Prodigal Son, the importance of family, of always leaving a road back, or of not casting stones but searching one's own soul first. Back at a time when I didn't understand the self-administered, bitter, bitter poison that holding onto anger becomes. And that time was a very long time ago.
There is nothing left for me to set aside, brother. There is no anger in my heart for you, only love and respect and compassion. To me, you are the one carrying this weight, just as I've carried mine. I've done my best to forgive myself and set mine down, though I do still stumble over it from time to time.
Lay your burden down, brother.
(Easier said than done, I know. Best of luck.)
And even though our stories intersect, our experiences varied. In recent years, conversation between us has sometimes turned to these differences. I've learned from him about times I was too young to remember; I've shared with him things from what came after he'd left.
I understand why he wrote what he did. He writes for one of the same reasons I often have: sometimes something on the inside needs to be on the outside. To say it's "cathartic" feels like an understatement. Sometimes, it feels like exorcism. Only by taking the pain and holding it up in the daylight does it whither away.
And because I understand this process, and I understand his feeling of guilt, I know that a simple "Well I, for one, forgive you, brother!" is at the same time unnecessary and insufficient. It's not my forgiveness or the forgiveness of our siblings he - or I - requires. He lives in a prison he built himself, and only he can dismantle it, brick by brick. As have I.
But I'm happy to provide what tools I have, based on my own experience, and to share with him my truths, for whatever they are worth.
His guilt resonates within me, with past feelings of my own. I am quite familiar with the helplessness of watching someone suffer with MS, and with the cycles of self-pity (for the things you can't have), anger (for your helplessness to do anything about it), guilt (for being angry, when you're not the real victim here), and depression (because it's about all you're left with). That tangled mess hardens like cement deep down in the soul until you know only that there's this incredible weight you carry with you and you've no idea exactly why or how to get rid of it.
When my mother died I was angry. I was angry and I was lost. It took me about three years to even begin to sort through that vicious anger-guilt-depression mix, and being I had, at 17, staved off the notion of suicide based on my rationalization that it would be to cause my mother yet-more-undeserved-suffering, this untangling came with a dose of wondering whether I should even go on living. (Spoiler: still here!)
What I discovered was the real root of my problem was this: everyone wants someone or something to blame, because the idea of living a life with parameters beyond our control is truly frightening. When you understand that, our motives and the ways we think and act start to make sense. People who are self-destructive in relationships? Control. People who believe in god and a rewarding afterlife? Control. People who believe in the devil? Control. Not my fault, the devil made me do it.
For those of us who don't believe in the supernatural, it becomes a game of who we can blame. Maybe it was your boss at work, or the government with their recent policy changes, or perhaps Becky because she started it all, after all, saying those hurtful things she did, right? And when we can't blame someone else... we can always blame ourselves. I'd been angry at Mom until I was old enough to realize how unfair that was, angry at God until I was old enough to realize how fruitless that was, and then angry at myself for having been angry at Mom or God.
But as 'men of science', as my brother and I consider ourselves, it is difficult to live with the notion that, well, sometimes, SHIT HAPPENS. There's no tidy cause and effect diagram to be constructed. There's just random bullshit.
Sometimes, it's just shit luck. It's not god's fault, or the devil's, or anyone you know. It's not yours. What I was angry at was Multiple Sclerosis, because it's devastating, and not just to the person who has it but to all the family and friends forced to deal with it. And there's no clear path or happy answers. It is a disease as unrelenting as it is cruel, and our mother is not the only one we've watched suffer it.
But I don't have nice, tidy facts to offer. I have only belief and a differing perspective.
Was she sad to see him leave? Maybe. Or maybe it was bittersweet because this woman defined her sense of self as "mother" and there was nothing more important in her life than her children, and there was a pride in seeing them grow up and leave the nest? I can't really say.
He fears perhaps he may not have appreciated her as much as he should have, but I know the way her lessons inform his daily existence, just as they do mine, and there is no better way to appreciate someone passed than to carry them forward in your heart and mind.
On the day my mother died, my brother was the last to arrive from away. He saw her in the afternoon, and then, when I left for supper, she finally passed. I believed then as I believe now that she held on just to see him one last time, and then just a little bit longer for the youngest to be out of the room. She needed to assure herself that we'd be okay without her, that she'd done good, that she could finally stop fighting for life.
I treat that idea as fact, though I have no science to support it. It is one of the very few things in my life I treat as faith.
My brother offered an apology to his family for "not being the son I should have been", but I don't feel I'm owed one. He's done his penance and so have I. Was there a time when I was angry or resentful? Sure. Back at the same time I was angry at myself for whatever I felt I could have or should have done, before I understood that in a very narrow-minded, logic-first way it may not seem sensible to be angry at a disease, but if it's the truth you're after, that's what you're left with. Back at a time when I didn't understand the wisdom of The Prodigal Son, the importance of family, of always leaving a road back, or of not casting stones but searching one's own soul first. Back at a time when I didn't understand the self-administered, bitter, bitter poison that holding onto anger becomes. And that time was a very long time ago.
There is nothing left for me to set aside, brother. There is no anger in my heart for you, only love and respect and compassion. To me, you are the one carrying this weight, just as I've carried mine. I've done my best to forgive myself and set mine down, though I do still stumble over it from time to time.
Lay your burden down, brother.
(Easier said than done, I know. Best of luck.)
