I’ve read his suicide note twice. The first time was four years ago, a couple days after he died. Through the tears, I only felt anger. He had left me out. Mentions of other members of our family and friends found their way onto the keyboard. But no mention of me.
The second time I read the note was this afternoon.
Four years ago, I wondered if he left me out because he was so mad at me. I wondered if I even had the right to grieve given he didn’t mention my name. I wondered if he loved me so much that he couldn’t fathom the thought of saying goodbye.
I wonder if he spared me. I wonder if he knew he wasn’t going to say anything nice so he didn’t say anything at all. I wonder why so much thought went into the other parts of his note yet thought wasn’t given to our relationship. But even more evident than him leaving me out is the pain I missed the first time I read it. I am looking at this letter all these years later and all I see is pain. I can feel it. This inevitably drives a whole new line of questioning…you see where this goes? Circles.
Working through all of these complicated feelings has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. I am trying to process actions I’ll never have answers for.
I started thinking about what I would have liked him to say. What do I think he would have said if he had included my name in the note? This is extremely difficult because I still wrestle with the thoughts of not knowing how he left this earth. Mad at me or sad to leave me.
This was all I could muster up:
We’ve had our differences and we haven’t always gotten along but you’re my sister and I love you.
I don’t know if his self-imposed distance from me and our family was a result of him being sick, or if he was truly angry with me, but all I want to know now, four years later, is that he loved me.