A yellow piece of paper

dreams that will never be realized

September is National Suicide Prevention Month. My brother Sam died by suicide in 2017.

It was through writing that I was able to let myself feel the magnitude of that loss.

I hope that the more we write and share about these experiences, the less frequent they become.

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January 2017

I wore jeans and a navy blue quarter zip sporting the logo for the Atlantic White Shark Conservancy–appropriate attire for a sunny January morning in my Cape Cod classroom. 10 minutes remained until the end of my prep period and the chaotic hustle to load two hundred 8th graders on a bus to see the movie, Hidden Figures began. I started to pack my bag with the essentials–roster, pen, cellphone,  keys, sweatshirt, and water bottle when the ping of my Apple Watch caught my attention. 

from Dad: “you need to come home now”.  

I hastily snatched my cell phone out of the freshly packed bag and called him. Despite his reluctance to deliver the news over the phone, I demanded to know what I was driving home toward. “Your brother Sam is dead”, he muttered. My body went numb. Tingles shot up and down my spine. It was my first major dose of cortisol, a feeling that I would be reacquainted with too many times over the coming years. 

“I can’t believe that FUCKER shot himself”, I screamed in the school parking lot as I got into my car to start the frantic 50-mile journey home. The first 13 miles of the drive spanned along a one-lane stretch of highway nicknamed suicide alley. Even in shock, I was aware of the irony. I alternated between visceral sobs and screams racing toward a family I would no longer recognize.  To this day, I will never judge the way someone is driving because I never know what they may be racing toward. 

Summer 2023

I sat on the deck a bin filled with old crayon drawings, faded paper, and photographs between my legs. I learned to trust my grief and that day it told me it was okay to start thumbing through the contents. It’s one of many strange projects I’ve had to do since moving into my childhood home after both parents died. As I worked through the bin, my mom’s haphazard organization system took me on a journey through my kindergarten report cards, an adorable Pokey and Gumby paint-by-number, and handmade artwork complete with aging macaroni. As I neared the middle of the bin, the handwriting shifted and the names on the report cards and artwork were no longer mine—but my brother Sam’s. Suddenly, I felt like a historian sifting through artifacts. The one that moved me the most was a 20-year-old yellow piece of paper. 

Present

I will never fully understand why my brother put a bullet through his head, and I don’t try to anymore. What I do understand is that his suffering was great, so consuming death seemed like his only choice, and for that, I will never fault him. As I dug through that bin I caught glimpses of how my baby brother saw the world before alcohol entered his system, and before shame and pain coursed through his veins. 

Written on that yellow piece of paper were the goals he wrote down when he was in 5th grade. As I read through each, I was moved by how well they reflected the brother I knew at his core. Sam was magnetic. He was loud. He had a laugh that would light up a room. He loved being outside, fishing, and working with his hands. I’m sure his goals were different when he died at 23, but my heart aches knowing he only got to cross two things off—he got his license and owned a pickup truck, the Danger Ranger. It’s also not lost on me how so many of my own goals have throughlines with his. I too, crave freedom, time spent outdoors with animals, and my own business.

Although I was already in therapy and moving along on my healing journey when Sam died, his death changed the trajectory it would take.  It made me realize what is at stake if we run from vulnerability and continue to perpetuate shame and stigma. I can’t help but wonder if Sam would’ve had the chance to get married and own his farm if he knew he wasn’t the only one who suffered, if he knew it was okay to ask for help, and, if he knew he was bruised but not broken. 

To some extent, the reason Sam killed himself was because of those who suffered before him and their belief that they were broken beyond repair. I am who I am today because of my brother’s suffering except,  I refuse to continue to allow that story to persist. I am committed to weaving a new storyline through the next generation. 

It is okay to not be okay. It is okay to ask for help. You are worthy even when you feel you’re not. Even when you’ve lost sight of the light, you are not broken. You are simply bruised and bruises can heal. 

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