Every tear I cry coats my heart. It provides an extra layer
of protection. Protection from pain, from love, from heartache.
It was a month ago I got the phone call, a brother I knew my
whole life. I kind of figured something was up, but I would have never guessed
it was this. The month before that I got the call about Gabe, a brother I was
never afforded the opportunity to get to know.
When I found out about Gabe, I cried. I felt guilty, upset,
confused, and angry. For some reason though, the next day I wore a smile and
went through life. He crossed my mind, I teared up, but I always held it in. I
was angry because I told myself I would get to know him over the summer. But I
was robbed of that opportunity. His daughters and son were robbed of a father
and his close family robbed of a great man. I felt guilty and confused because
how could I feel such sadness. I couldn’t be half as sad as the ones who knew
him. I couldn’t really grieve because I didn’t know him. That’s what I told
myself to cope every day. Every day until I got the next call.
I’m not going to lie, that call stung. It hurt. The range of
emotions started to hit, anger, sadness, frustration. Why you? Why me? Why us?
I was angry, because we were supposed to make it. We were supposed to show that
two products of the 80’s crack epidemic in Little Rock can make. We can be
successful. Why did I get to be the strong one? But yet again, the next day I
wore my smile and went through life. I never had a hard time sleeping, I never
had to cry myself to sleep.
I realize that grief and sadness look different to everyone,
but I started to wonder why the death of two brothers didn’t send me into an
instant state of debilitating depression. How am I still smiling, conversing,
and standing?
See, when you’ve experienced as much death as me, it seems
like such a natural part of life, whether the death be sudden and tragic or
expected. I’ve been to more funerals than weddings. In perception, I’ve lost
more people than I gained. Losing my mother at five years old, everything else seemed
commonplace. Loss just seems like natural progression.
No one wakes up and realizes they are emotionally detached.
It’s something you stumble upon. Something you figure out and work on as time
goes. I never really understood how emotionally detached I could become until
this past month. You could say I WebMD’d my emotional and mental health. Is it
the best thing to do? No. Do I care? No. However, my question is not why did I
become emotionally detached, but why am I so good at it? I’m so good at compartmentalizing
my feelings and emotions because I’ve convinced myself I can deal with them on
my own in my own time. I never want to seem burdensome, so I stay quiet, I stay
introspective because, “Hey, everyone else is going through their own shit!” My
ability to so easily become emotionally detached has worked for me so well. And
honestly I want to preserve it as much as possible. But I also understand the
importance of not being able to emotionally detach, allowing myself to heal.
The past two months have been the hardest I’ve had to endure
for a while. With the resurfacing of many demons from my past I’ve purposefully
forgotten, it’s been rough. A lot of my friends have expressed their concern
over my seemingly calm attitude over the past two months. I always responded
with my usual I have to be strong for myself because no one will do it for me
speech.
I do understand that grief looks different, however, I still
dread having to face those emotions. I’m slowly but surely allowing myself to
sink into the depressive stage of grief so that I can come out a better person.
I don’t know how long it will take.
My heart is the most guarded thing about me. There may be a small step backwards, but hopefully
the layers of protection over my heart and the stainless steel, bulletproof
wall that precedes it becomes a little weaker over the next few years.
PS: You’re still an inch shorter than me homie. J
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