July 26, 2006.  The day my brother Mike died.

It was more than just a death for me.  We all say, “My life was never the same after ______ died,” but Mike’s death changed EVERYTHING.  Changed my marriage.  Changed my girls.  Changed my relationship with the rest of my family.  You can’t go through a trauma like that and come out unscathed.  Just typing about it now, my heart is in my throat.  It was an awful, horrible night—the worst moments, without question, of my life.  I feel like I should at least have gleaned some wisdom from having lived through that.

But I don’t know that I have.

I don’t know that there’s a “silver lining” in his death unless that silver lining is that my soul was hardened and a thicker veneer than already coated me was sealed.  I guess I’m tougher.  Is that a silver lining?  It really doesn’t feel like it.  It feels like a blinding scarlet letter on my chest:  I’m “that girl” whose brother was killed by her husband.  Both I and the Grand Jury believed it was self-defense.  I will never believe otherwise.  Ever.  I’d never seen Mike the way he was that night.  It was TERRIFYING.

Honestly, I just stopped to take a Klonopin (it’s okay!  They’re prescribed!).

I’m not sure why I feel compelled to write about this just now, but I do.  Maybe an exorcism of sorts.

I’ve gone to a lot of therapy to process that night.  A LOT.  A lot of time passed before I could forgive my brother, forgive my family.  I’m mostly there.  Mostly.  If I sit and think about it too much, all the old rage seeps to the surface. How could he do that to me?  How could my family not believe me when I said he was out of control like they’d never seen him?  How could my family not believe me?

I kinda get it.  They weren’t there, and who wants to believe that your brother/your son was capable of behaving like a monster?  That’s part of the pain.  That my last memories of him were when he was so drunk, so violent, so seemingly evil.  At least my family can whitewash it.  I can’t.  I suppose I would if I could, too.

It’s a wound that will never heal.  I fool myself into believing that I’ve gotten past it, but my physiological response is proof that I haven’t.  I wish I could scrub it out of my brain.  Not remember the details I remember.  Not remember his rage.  Not remember my terror.  Not remember the disbelief.  Not remember him putting his hands on me.  Not remember the gunshots.  Not remember lying on the ground to show I wasn’t a threat when police showed up.  Not remember my husband going to jail. Not remember calling attorneys.  Not remember doing a stupid press conference.  Not remember testifying before the Grand Jury.  Not remember bailing my husband out of jail.  Not remember.  Just not remember.

I hate this day and yet I’m marked by it.  There’s no whitewashing.  There’s no not remembering.

I guess the wisdom is that I still survived.  The knowledge that I still survived.  I don’t feel strong.  I don’t feel tough.  I feel small.  I feel wounded.  I feel afraid.  But I survived.

Life’s not easy. No but.  No “Life’s not easy but it’s so worth it” or “Life’s not easy but it’s magical”.  Just:  Life’s.  Not.  Easy.

But I’ve survived.  And so have you.  And that, in and of itself, is something.