It's been 3 years

and I finally feel ok. There have been days where I felt as if I couldn't make it through the daylight hours because the sadness was so intense, the anger all consuming, and the brightness of the sun was an insult to my pain, assaulting me with it's light and warmth. But they have lessened in numbered and intensity. Time hasn't made it any better. It's just made it different. I've finally come to a point where I've accepted that he's not coming back. He won't need his art supplies, his back pack, or a ride anymore. It's ok to give them to someone else. He won't call in the middle of the night and leave ridiculous messages, or silly songs on my voicemail anymore. It's ok to stop looking for the messages. He's gone, and I'm ok.

For a while, after he died, I saw a therapist. She was a complete joke, but in talking to her, I realized something, or rather, I acknowledged something. My brother's death forced to the fore-front my life-long struggle with my lack of faith. It just isn't there. I have never really believed in a god. Ever. I have tried. I have pretended. I have agonized over it. It's. Just. Not. There. I see the world in a scientific way. Things live. Things die. Everything serves a purpose, supports something else, and then goes away to make room for the next cycle, the next species, the next phase of evolution. My brother died. There isn't room on the planet for everyone to stay forever. It was his turn to go. It's ok. For a long time, I felt guilty for feeling that way. And now I don't. The retarded therapist said that I needed to accept my loss, to make peace with his death. I don't. I accept that he's never coming back. I acknowledge that he's gone. There's no peace to be made with those things. They are facts, indisputable facts. I am not at war with his death. I was at war with myself, with my misguided notions of what grief should be, and what the 'appropriate' way to mourn his death was. I was angry with myself for not being able to just accept that there is a god so that I'd have a place to direct my anger, something to blame for my rage at his death, frustrated with my 'stubbornness'. But that war is over. I have finally come to the realization that I am accountable to no one for my grief, my opinions, my loss. They are mine to deal with as I choose. Am I angry that my brother died? Hell yes, and never moreso than when I see some shitbag masquerading as human stumbling around taking up space and using up oxygen, doing nothing to better this world. But I'm ok. My brother died to make room for someone, something, else, better, more, new. While he was here, he used his time. The world is a better place for having had him in it. I am a better person for having known and loved him. And even though he's gone, I'm ok.