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Yesterday was the anniversary of one of my brother's death. I'm still mad at him for a lot of reasons, one being he ASSURED ME he would be there to help my other brother when it was time for him to die from aids. I was so thankful that someone was going to step up to the plate and finally be the patriarch of the family after twenty-something years after my father died and left us all floundering around.
But he never got the chance to do anything because he died from an overdose of heroin shortly after we heard the news. (My other brother eventually died five years later.)
Did he shoot just a little too much on purpose? Was it because he was in pain over the inevitable loss of a brother he was so very close to? Was it because he'd been clean for eight years and fell off the wagon again? Was it an accident? Does it really matter?
I am tired of dead people. I miss all the dead people. I am jealous of dead people.
I am not in a good place today. Sorry.
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