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Facing the End: How to Cope with the Inevitable 

Content Warning: This story explores themes of suicide. Reader digression is advised. 

by: Lilee Bennett

Carla  

I was sixteen years old when it happened. I had just gotten home from school exhausted and mentally drained from the hours of endless talking and work. The mouthwatering smell of ground meat and homemade guacamole filled the air as I entered the kitchen. My parents greeted me near the granite counter with smiles on their faces. I set my bag on the tile floor, and it landed with a thud. I picked pieces of juicy sweet corn, freshly cooked meat, salted crispy tortilla chips, and smooth guacamole from the counter. The salty, spiced flavors danced on my tongue. They did their scolding routine, telling me to wait until everything was ready, but never punished me.

“The girl is hungry. Let her eat.” Dad would say to Mom.   

I smiled and filled my mouth with as much as I possibly could before cushioning myself on the couch to rest my weary eyes. My mom would have none of that, though, because after a few moments passed, she’d nag me to go upstairs and tell my brother dinner was ready. Walking up those stairs felt stranger than usual; the closer I had gotten to the landing, the more suspicious I felt. With each step, my heart pounded faster, and the hair on my arms prickled with unease. I couldn’t explain it at the time.   

I half expected him to open the door at the last minute before twisting the knob or, even better, relocking it after I had already attempted to open it. Instead, I opened the door with ease. Rather than finding my brother doing his usual routine of sitting at his desk doing homework, I found him hanging above his desk chair from a handmade rope tied to the ceiling fan. His face had a mixture of dark blue and purple splotches, and his neck turned at an odd angle. I couldn’t look away, and I didn’t scream. My eyes stayed glued to his, which looked like they would pop out at any moment. My parents eventually questioned my silence and the music that resonated throughout the house. They decided to meet me upstairs and I jumped at my mom’s screams, which were louder than the speakers in my brother’s room. My father barely spoke after that day.

It goes to show that you never truly know anybody, no matter how close you may be. My family and I went to church for many years, and it worked for a while, but my brother’s absence wasn’t something to be cured of, and I got tired of hearing about God’s plan for my brother’s choices. A deafened numbness drowned out everything. I felt hollow, like an empty shell. I lost a part of me that could never be replaced. That was my brother, my best friend.   

I felt guilty at first, questioning why I didn’t see the signs or why he didn’t feel it was necessary to tell me he felt so miserable. But when the shock wore off, anger would boil inside. How could he do this? I would think to myself, watching as my parents struggled to comfort each other with the loss of their son. For months, my mother’s sobs would keep me up at night until, eventually, time quieted her. In this silence, a profound sadness settled around me. His once-occupied room was achingly cold and empty. I longed to hear his orotund voice again, his laughter whenever I said silly jokes, but most of all, his hugs, which would comfort me in my darkest moments. I never knew he would become one of them.   

Childhood began fading over time like photographs left in the sun. My lack of focus turned all my friends away when I forgot the plans we made. I would avoid people purposefully because I felt they didn’t understand, but even I didn’t understand my feelings or why my memory failed me. Tears in my mother’s eyes in reaction to forgetting several childhood memories pushed me toward therapy. It took a revolving door of therapists until I finally met a woman with kind, understanding eyes to get me back on my feet. My answers progressed from “I don’t know” to things like, “My brother and I loved to play Super Mario Bros when we were younger.” As time continued to pass, the pressure of guilt and anger lifted from my shoulders. I felt relief and appreciation for the people around me, and my shattered world slowly but surely pieced back together after I thought it was impossible.  

Lottie and Sarah, my two best friends from college, sit quietly at the little wooden table of Revival Café after hearing my story. No looks of pity or sadness crossed their faces, only silent understanding. I knew they understood my pain from losing their parents, but hearing about the loss of a sibling was foreign to them. However, I didn’t want us to sit still forever, so I quickly devised a joke to ease the quiet atmosphere.  

“It’s funny,” I said, breaking the silence. Sarah and Lottie look at me with confused yet anticipated looks.   

“I mean, I don’t know about you, but I feel a bit revived after being here with you two to talk about this. Get it? Revival Café?”   

Sarah groaned at my little pun in simulated repulsion before bursting into fits of giggles along with Lottie, who shook her head, smiling widely.   

The end of life is inevitable, but my ability to feel hope, empathy, and growth is also. My brother taught me how to embrace the light after rising from the darkness of grief. Not alone, but arm in arm with loved ones willing to walk with me every step of the way. After opening my heart to my friends and professionals, they revealed that life is not defined by the end but by moments of connection and love that live on forever.