Dirty Dishes

My oldest brother, Scott, was always a little different. He was born 11 years before me so our relationship was not a very close one, and much of what I know of his early years I have learned from others. I know that even as a small child he suffered from anxiety and depression. He was very young when he did the math from my parents anniversary to his birthday and found out it was only 6 months. I don’t think that knowledge would have been a big deal at all if my parents hadn’t hated each other. Our house was a war zone every day of every week of every year that I can remember. They couldn’t stop fighting, and they wouldn’t do the decent thing and get divorced, because Families Are For Fucking Ever, and you can’t get divorced just because you hate your spouse and expect to get into the Celestial Kingdom. My brother bore all the guilt of their broken marriage, because the math told him that they wouldn’t have even gotten married if it weren’t for him. I can’t even imagine how hard that was.

He had a very hard time relating to and interacting with the rest of our family. He spent lots of time alone in his room. He always struggled in school both academically and socially, until high school, when he found his niche in debate and politics. He worked in politics at the local, state, and national levels after high school graduation. I believe he did very well, and really enjoyed this work. He went to college off and on, but never could quite pull it together to get a degree. He got married and divorced within the same year. In general his successes in life were few and far between.

People always ask me when it was that Scott started to act strange and get sick. I can’t really say though, because he ALWAYS acted strange that I can remember. What I know is that he was diagnosed with depression and schizophrenia first in May of 2002. He had been hearing voices and having delusions constantly for at least 18 months before that. He had had several ‘psychotic episodes’, that went undiagnosed, during the 10 years before that. He was unable to work and lived with my parents.

He was prescribed one medication after another, with the hope that he could find something to get his symptoms under control. Nothing worked. And I didn’t get it. It’s the biggest regret that I have in my life, I just didn’t get it. It’s very difficult to understand mental illness, and I was frightened by my brother and the way he behaved. I was afraid to have my kids around him, because he was so unpredictable. I spent too much time blaming him for being sick. ‘If he hadn’t done this, or if he would try that, then he would be able to have a normal life’ was the sound bite I played in my head. It kept me away from him during what I should have known were his last years on earth. What a fucking waste. Twice he attempted suicide by taking too much medicine, and I should have known that one day he would succeed. I think there is a very hot corner in Hell reserved for me and my flawed and unsympathetic attitude toward my brother. Or there would be if I believed in such a thing.

Two years ago today my parents found Scott dead in a hotel room. He had overdosed on pain medication by taking somewhere around 100 pills. His mind was broken, he lived in constant fear, and he just couldn’t do it anymore. I can’t blame him. About a month before he had called me and asked if he could come up and stay with me for a little while sometime. I had said that of course he could, any time. Thank God I didn’t tell him what I was really thinking, because that was the last time I ever talked to my brother. It’s what I have, to help me through this, the hope that my brother knew I loved him when he died because I was kind to him in our last conversation. It’s not much, but its all I’ve got.

I wanted to share this with you, in the hope that you would never let something like this happen to you and someone you love. I hope that all of you are smarter than I am. I hope all of you know better than to act the way I did, so I don’t really have to say to you: please, don’t be as fucking stupid as I was. I’m hoping I don’t need to say: please love your family every day, EVEN THE CRAZY ONES, because they might be gone tomorrow and all you will have left is sadness, guilt, and regret if you don’t. Maybe I’m hoping to help even one person change their mind and attitude, to gain some sort of absolution for myself, even though I’m pretty sure the only complete idiot in the world is me.