how long can you hold your breath?

it’s anniversary season around here.

not the good kind, the other one. the kind that supposedly “get better with time.” you know all those cliche’s? “time heals all,” or “grief eases with time,” or “light at the end of the tunnel,” all the trite shit people say to you when bad things happen.

it’s been 17 years since all the death happened.

cliche’s are gonna cliche and i guess things are better. or healed. or whatever. time and life have both continued on.

seventeen years is a long time.

especially when you’re holding your breath.

have you heard of 27 forever? jimmi. janice. jim. kurt. amy. steve.

that last one not familiar?

my brother chose to be 27 forever in 2009. he suffered a TBI in july and he chose to be 27 forever in october.

there is no arguing with his decision. i can list a thousand reasons i’m mad at him for checking out early. i can also list a thousand reasons i understand why he checked out early. whether or not i agree or disagree or land somewhere in the million acres of grey area betwixt the two, at the end of the day, a decision was made. that subject is long closed. no amount of arguing either side of the debate will bring steve back. the genie in aladdin taught me that.

there’s all sorts of statistics about suicide. there’s dissertations. textbooks full of research and studies.

i’ve spent my fair share amount of time thinking about suicide, from all sides. i’ve fist fought death itself sitting under my kitchen table sobbing wanting to die but not being able to because there were dishes in the sink. i’ve made the award call to bosses when coworkers have threatened self-harm while working remote during covid. i made one really awkward call to a fire chief once when a firefighters not only told me they were thinking about it but had an entire plan mapped out with specific dates.

and, seventeen years ago, I sat front row at a full catholic mass for my baby brother being lectured to by a priest about the sins of suicide and how it keeps you from heaven forever. REALLY? AT THE FUNERAL YOU ABSOLUTE FUCK? closest i’ve ever come to punching a clergy member.

one of the statistics about suicide floating around out there: the risk of suicide greatly increases if there’s already been one in the family.

well. fuck you steve. now i can’t do it because you already did it and if ONE increases the risk of others, TWO certainly can’t be good, so now i HAVE to stick around. jesus you asshole. ugh. FINE. whatever. then they have the gall to question me about wanting life insurance at 30.

so.

as it happens,

i am not the only one in my family.

my oldest, my darling, brilliant, funny, creative, sensitive, water sign first born got my brain. gremlins and all.

it was a topic that came up.

more than once.

there have been some REALLY, REALLY dark times in the last seventeen years. like being born to me wasn’t enough of a challenge for this lifetime, the universe decided to start punching him square in the face when he was barely a kid: all the death started barely a few weeks after his 11th birthday. that’s just fucking mean.

with my very unkind brain stuffed in his already too smart head and a newly minted family legacy of suicide, there have been more than a few times over the years that had me more than a little worried.

“you know, uncle steve…”

last week he turned 28. we made it. we did it.

27 forever can fuck off. it claimed one generation, not two.

it’s not logical that i’ve been holding my breath this whole time.

*technically* just this past year should have had me tied up in knots.

naur. i’ve been holding my breath for 17 years.

right up til the whistle blew at 12:34 pm on my crabby cancer’s birthday.

right up until the final whistle.

i’m not sure which is harder: listening to your kid tell you they’re thinking about death, or listening to your kid tell you they wish they’d been aborted. that last month before 28 threw a few solidly landed stray punches my direction. oof. 

like, my dude. i have done everything in my power to keep you alive for 28 years. some of the hardest decisions i’ve ever had to make or will ever have to make were to keep you alive. i just…

but we did it. we made it past 27 forever. i can let out the breath that i, very much aware, have been holding. 

and i know the 27 forever window closing isn’t the magic everything is ok forever now window.

hell, i’m 45 and still have days that death stops by to see if i still think of them. so narcissistic, those grim reapers. walking around thinking we’re obsessed with them all the time. it’s fewer and further between now bitch. take that. AND, super dirty secret: i’ve actually caught myself being EXCITED about being alive lately, it’s bizarre and strange.