tw: suicide

Yesterday, I woke up very angry. I was ready to furious. At a guy who wasted my time last week in a stupid meeting, or that other guy, just driving the wrong way down Center Street. He almost hit me head on because he wanted to turn into the Starbucks and couldn’t wait his turn and go to the light like everyone else. (Jerk! Who does that? I made eye contact with him and hoped my smoldering passive aggressive glare taught him a lesson.)

But mostly, I suppose, I’m mad because humans are a hardy species and we’ve survived millenia times millenia of famines and plagues and floods and wars and yet, just a few short moments without air— we’re dead. We casually scroll Instagram on the toilet in less time than it takes for us to die.

I had this dream. I was sitting with my brothers and sisters, all 7 of us. (I’m the oldest, in real life, and also, it seems, in my dreams. Older sisters get a bad rap, we’re high strung I guess, but we have our reasons). Anyways, all of us were sitting at a long table, having dinner in a prison. There were jail cells all around us. Have you been to Alcatraz? It was like that. Barred jail cells on two levels. There was a sense of unease, even as we shared dinner.

“Your brother has to go away”, the prison guard told us, as she stood at the head of the table. “He killed one of your brothers.” The guard was older, larger, no nonsense, heart of gold, straight out of a 90s TV crime drama.

But we were all here, there was no dead brother. While everyone chatted and nervously ate dinner, I counted around the table, compulsively, obsessively, over and over and over and over, a lifetime of dreamtime, like I did in my waking life, in my parent’s 5 seater station wagon, then the 9 seater station wagon and then the 12 passenger van: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, myself 7. I was always worried we’d leave one behind.

I noticed my third brother wasn’t well. He was smiling, but something was wrong. I knew this, I was there when he was born, when he learned to walk. I knew his looks. He couldn’t follow our conversation. He wasn’t well.

I went to the guard privately, she was in her office, leaned back, legs up on her desk, eating a sandwich. “We’re all here”, I pleaded. “No one has died, no one has been killed. Can’t we all leave together?”

She shook her gray haired head at me. And then a pointed nod at the 3rd brother. “Sorry darlin’. He has to leave. He killed one of your brothers.”

I was done quietly talking and started dream yelling, that horrible space where no one hears you but you scream anyways. “No!! He’s here, we’re all here. None of my brothers are dead. And clearly this man couldn’t hurt anyone, he’s not ok, he needs help.”

She smiled sadly at me, two solemn prison guards approached our table, taking our brother away, handcuffed.

He turned to look at us and he smiled, excited, curious, confused, sweet crinkly eyes sad. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand.

The guard looked at me, all tea and sympathy.

And then I understood.

So yeah, I woke up angry. How can we be so resilient, but so easily broken?

He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. I don’t understand.