Memories from the NorthEast (MftNE): Many things in my life I have chosen not to talk about. My counselor Susan (henceforth The Counselor) says it is time to share. Hence this series of blogposts. Apologizes to all.
First the biggie. There is no easy way to say this; I killed my brother. No, not my younger brother, the older one. The one we never talked about.
I recall this vaguely. I was a toddler. Sammy was born sick. I don't know the medical condition nor the prognosis. I was born three years after him following a fortuitous three-car pile on Interstate 25. We shared a room. Me in my crib, he under his oxygen tent. There is a memory of playing alone in our room that day as he slept. I didn't understand why my mother was crying later that day, because we don't talk about.
Later I overheard stuff. Sammy's oxygen had been accidentally turned off. I asked a few times after that if it was my fault. Mom said it wasn't my fault and refused to talk about it. I might have asked my grandmother when I got older or my Aunt Laura now, but we don't talk about.
I remember the last time I talked about it (before today). I was on a week-long Boy Scout trip in the Pecos Wilderness. I shared my worrisome tale to a few guys there. The second time I told that story one of the older guys was shaking his head at me as I began. He pulled me aside later, gruffly assured me it wasn't my fault and added confidently and intently that I shouldn't tell that story. I had heard this advice before. I had seen this troubled look on people's' faces. I tried to get him to explain why, but his tone and stance told me we weren't going to talk about. So, we didn't, and I haven't since.