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Growing up, I idolized my big brother. Everything he did, I wanted to do. I tagged along like little brothers do, and followed him and his friends around, always wanting to be part of whatever he was doing.
The first time I realized my brother wasn't like everyone else's brother was when I was 8 (he was 12). Mark had taken some pills and alcohol, and collapsed in my father's arms. I told my dad what I saw him take, and he was rushed to the hospital to get his stomach pumped.
Growing up with Mark was never easy. As a paranoid schizophrenic, he often heard voices, and would angrily be yelling around the house, as if we were the ones saying the things he heard. The medications that he was taking weren't doing enough, so he turned to self-medication.
Imagine living with a paranoid schizophrenic psychotic, who also included working out as part of his obsessive compulsive daily routine, and was usually high out of his mind. My parents and I had a lock and key for our respective bedrooms.
But it wasn't all bad. There were times when he had cleaned up a little, or was on a new medication, and we could be like brothers again, instead of adversaries. Our roles had switched, and I became more of the big brother, ultra-protective of him, and trying to keep him out of trouble.
One of the highlights that always stuck with me was when he graduated from his alternative high school. They had one of the students sing I Believe I Can Fly. I know it's a corny song, and Kellz is a creep, but at that moment, being sung by that kid, it was perfect. With the path he was on, a lot of people didn't think he'd live long enough to graduate high school, and we were all so proud of him.
As he got older, he fought a lot less, as usually happens with schizophrenics. As he mellowed, he got funnier. His jokes would come out of nowhere, after sitting silent for half an hour, and would be right on point, and hilarious.
Moving out to Arizona with my dad did wonders for him. He had fresh air to go on long walks, he got a dog to keep him company, and was away from bad influences. He and my dad took care of each other - my dad giving my brother his medicine and taking him to doctors, and my brother doing all the help around the house for my dad as his body broke down.
Monday morning, I got a call at work that my brother died in his sleep. He was 36. I've been sitting in a daze for the last two days, trying to figure out what to do next. I last saw him in February, he was in good spirits and said repeatedly how much he missed me and my wife. I last spoke to him last week, he was upbeat and excited about the future, and looking forward to seeing us again. Now, that's not going to happen. Fuck. There aren't enough fucks in the world for this.
Hug your family. Tell them you love them. You never know when someone's time is going to be up. *Jews you*
"this is okp tho, reading is completely optional" (c) desus
Proceed with caution. I am overtly racist.
<-- In Pigpen we trust
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