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- W4256333816 abstract "Dear Brother Dan O’Brien (bio) Before you tried to kill yourself, I loved you most. It’s possible I don’t remember idealizing you, the way Mother always insisted I had, because to remember would be to feel guilty. But guilty of what? When I heard you’d been hospitalized, many years ago now, with a diagnosis, finally, of depression and social anxiety disorder—after another suicide attempt, I presume—I was an adult, but the obsessive-compulsive disorder of my childhood flared back to life. At some point growing up I grew older than you. I knew there was little you could teach me; if anything, I had to teach you, lead you. Take care of you. ________ All families are cults. Most of us remain devotees long after we are children, until the day we die. I am still a member, of a kind, the ceaseless revision of these pages my sacred office. I wrote my first poem for you. Entitled “Snow,” it was influenced, to the precipice of plagiarism, by Langston Hughes’s “My Friend.” Shades of Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” too. I can still recite it by heart: My brother tried to kill himself.There’s nothing left to say.Just like raindropsOn a shaking black bough,He pushed us all—Thank God for snow. All of the children in our family felt annoyed and burdened and exhausted by each other’s presence, if not existence. There was no trust, for we so often sold each other’s secrets to the police state of our parents. I’m ashamed of how often I succumbed. Like a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, I felt bad for our parents and judgmental most often of you. Perhaps it’s fairer to say I needed them more, especially Mother. I knew she was unstable, if not worse, but I saw her as a tragic figure, and one whose tragedy I might someday redeem with my artistry. Your rage—when you showed it—scared me half to death. Why couldn’t you pretend, I wondered, like I did? Like the rest of us? Why couldn’t you simply hold your tongue and anger inside without cracking? If you could only learn patience, like me, you’d persevere. You could escape. If you could displace, withstand—then you would transcend. That was my plan, at least. When I was newly diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer, a Russian [End Page 87] acupuncturist told me that my anger was the reason. Something to do with a misalignment of my Manipura or navel chakra. Anger unspoken causes cancer in organs, she explained, most acutely in the bowels. Her metaphor offended me. We’d just met. I was weak from surgery and I lost my temper—told her she was peddling medieval bullshit—and hobbled out of her office without a single needle pricking my skin. As a writer I’d spent my adult life giving voice to my emotions; anger often foremost, but also longing, regret, loneliness, love. In my quiet way I had been expressing all, and all in the belief that expression would save me. But sometimes I worry she was right. Maybe I should have lived my anger. Maybe like you, my brother, I should have shouted when younger, should have leapt from that window myself, or better yet pushed one or both of our parents through. ________ Mother sends me to fetch you for dinner and, climbing the stairs, I see your body hanging from a noose. Your feet dance inches off the floor; your body sways, the rope groans. In my mind’s eye, I see your bed sheets sodden with your blood, your wrists and throat slit, your face pallid, drained. Or you in your reading chair with Father’s rifle under your chin, about to trip the trigger with a naked toe—when I knock on your door and say, “Time for dinner, Chris.” The family never talked about what you’d done, or why, not in any sane way. You did not explain or apologize. Not that you needed to. But didn’t you feel ashamed? Were you worried about..." @default.
- W4256333816 created "2022-05-12" @default.
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- W4256333816 date "2019-01-01" @default.
- W4256333816 modified "2023-10-17" @default.
- W4256333816 title "Dear Brother" @default.
- W4256333816 doi "https://doi.org/10.1353/ner.2019.0059" @default.
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