Dear R,
I'm writing to you because I know how busy you are. I know how sometimes you walk into the kitchen and stand outside the back door and sigh and hold your breath in because the phone is ringing and the dog is barking and the children, my joy-filled nephew and bright inquisitive niece, are crying.
I know how you longed for them all, for the dog who would take away the pain of not conceiving the babies you so longed for, for the beautiful children who would come into your life, but never take away the pain of the babies that didn't make it; The babies that filled you for such a short time with hope and joy before being gone, almost before they had been at all.
I stood by you through those times. I stood by while your world fell away and while I was unable to do anything. When even my words and actions to comfort felt gauche and unconvincing, even to me. I stood by when your joy turned to sadness, then anger, then grief. When your heart was empty, I stood by you.
I was not the only one. Your faithful, loyal husband. Our mother, who folds us as surely into her arms now as she did into a blanket when we were tiny. Our father, who treasures you and holds you so highly, ever his joy, even now when our family is changed, fractured and refastened. We all stood by you, unable to do anything as you were betrayed by nature yet again.
That's when it began. That's when I noticed the anger, the darkness that quickened you. The rage that seemed to flicker through you after even the smallest of upsets. I saw how the party-loving butterfly was becoming darker and sharper. I saw how the party became less of a celebration and more of a wake. I saw how this had happened, and while I couldn't know exactly why, I hoped, as we all did, that once your life and home were filled with children, that this darkness would recede.
Your blessings came so close together. Within two years your family was complete. An amazing boy, strong and bright and joyous, just like you and his father. A brilliant girl, with the same cool questioning eyes, that we all know will see straight to the heart of the matter, as the women in our family always do. I love them more completely and more devotedly than I ever thought possible. They are my sun and moon, and yours too, I know. I burst with pride for you all when I see you together, or hear their laughter on the phone when we talk.
But we talk less often now. We talk when I know you can, but before you've reached the second glass of wine, or third, or fourth. I call when I know you might have time to talk but not when you're 'relaxing'. I don't call then because your relaxation means opening a bottle, or smoking a joint, or too often, both. I don't call then because you change and because I like to talk to you and listen to you, not hear the tiredness or irritation or intoxication in your voice.
I am writing this letter because I am concerned that you have a problem. I think that the sadness in you, the darkness you hold on to, is starting to take over. The anger that life's losses and intrusions have caused is spilling out. Where once you would have a glass of wine to toast the successful day, you now have a bottle to drown the unfulfilled. Where once you would smoke to enjoy the feeling and atmosphere, you now smoke to escape the ennui and apathy you feel.
When I came at Christmas, it was at the end of a long year. A year in which I had my own problems and my own illness. A year in which I broke down, unable to push forward like I wanted to do. A year in which you, your family and my mother raised me back up to start again, and a year in which I pushed 'reset' on my life after glimpsing the edge. I came because I wanted to repay that, to help, to live and love as part of your family for a week. I came to share laughter and break bread and give gifts and do all of the usual family Christmas things, but most of all I came to see you. I came to see the person who has been constantly present for all of my life.
I saw some parts of you. I saw the tired mother of 'two under two' who is doing an amazing job with two children, a house full of guests and a dog with special needs. I saw the hostess who is plastering on a smile while her guests demand ever more from her. I saw the wife who loves her husband but has forgotten in her tiredness and frustration how to say it and how to show it. I didn't see you though, sister. I didn't see all of you.
Instead I saw the drunk woman who has turned to wine because she feels she needs a crutch. I saw the glance towards her husband as she opens another bottle. I saw the smoker who has a joint every night because it 'makes her sleep better' and I saw the jaded party girl who needs her bed.
I know you're tired, and I know you're sad. Sad for what might have been, and sad for the 'could haves' and 'wanted tos' that your life has given you so far. I know that by becoming a mother you feel you've lost a part of what made you unique. I know that you are so frustrated sometimes that you lash out with words you'd never write down, and I know that you're sometimes overcome by what you're thinking so you block it out with whatever is to hand.
This can't go on, sister. This can't carry on in this spiral of sadness and anger and oblivion. You can't keep throwing words like weapons and causing tears and silence and distance. You can't keep blocking out what and why and when with wine and with hash. You can't keep staying up night after night because you think you're having a life outside your children when it means you're so tired and sad and cross the next day that they inevitably see it.
I'm asking you to open your eyes. Open your eyes and look carefully at what you are doing. Look at how much you drink, and how many times you shout, and how your husband steps away when you raise your voice. Listen to how you sound when you swear at him, or tell him he's a bad father, or when you fight over the tiniest problem.
I'm not perfect, and I'm not judging you by my or anyone else's standards. I'm not proclaiming to be an expert on any aspect of your life except one. I know you. I've known you for 35 years and I see you. I see you hiding inside yourself, afraid to ask for help. I'm not telling you to ask me, or our mother, or anyone that we know. I'm telling you to open your eyes, and look at yourself. Look at what you're doing, and what you have around you. Look at the house you live in, the space for your family to grow, look at the children you have, strong and healthy and ready to make the world theirs, look at the husband who has stood by you through everything, and look at the family all around you, fractured, refastened and ready to love you. Look at all of this, and make the decision to be honest with yourself and take the help that you need to be happy. Help that will stop you from hurting with words, or masking with drink, or fearing the very worst every time.
I wrote this because I love you, and I need you. You've taught me so much as we've grown up, and I wanted to help you, even if it's just a little.
With love from your brother,
B.
