Frank, if not graphic, discussion of suicide and depression ahead.

I wanted to find some kind of way to ease into this topic. But the more I type and delete, the more I stare into the white maw of my empty post, the more sure I become that that cannot be done. So I'm going to hope for the best with the jump, and just say as much as I can what the fuck it is that is going the fuck on—

My little brother killed himself this morning. He was 26. I know how, in graphic detail. But I will never ever really know why. He was doing so well, maybe the best he'd been in his whole life, which I know can be dangerous for people who struggle with depression, either a sign of a plan— though I don't think he planned this, or a time when it's easier to act on those impulses. If my brother had been more depressed right now, he might still be alive. He might have just lain there on the ground until the cops picked him up for loitering. But it's bad to play the maybe game with death. So I'll stop dealing in these kinds of indefinites as best as I can.

We drove over an hour— into the part of Jersey I hate for not a lot of reason, though I guess now I have one— to meet with the detective because my sister was listed as his only next of kin and the address they had for her, well she hasn't lived there in over a year. So by the time they got in touch with her, it was too late for them to come to us.

These are some of my thoughts from the car ride:

I wish like fuck I was going to bail him out of jail.

Wow, person angrily driving that minivan, after some time I'll be fine, but you'll still be an asshole.

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This is literally the most fucked up thing my brother has ever done, or will ever do.

I was okay for most of the drive, but as we got closer, I started to feel like someone was squeezing my chest. When we got off the last highway, I started shaking uncontrollably.

While we waited outside for the detective, I paced and fidgeted. The detective was very sweet. He walked us into an interrogation room (This isn't how I pictured my first time in an interrogation room would be.) He talked about how they'd been trying all day to get a hold of my sister, and then asked us what we wanted to know.

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Which was every little detail because there's no way I can ever know what was going through his head— or why he called who he called before hand. I wish like fuck he'd called me. I'd been awake at the time. By the time I got into the shower this morning, he was already gone from this world.

The detective gave us directions to where it had happened. And I couldn't not go.

You guys, I know they said they'd cleared the scene by 8:30 this morning, but the imprint from my brother's body was still in the ground. You could see where his head and his arms had been, and on the ground still in the wood chips where his pockets had been was the 30 cents he'd had in his pocket when he took his life.

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To quote my sister: "I've never been so sentimental about pocket change before."

We stood there for a while, trying to find the exact spot he'd been in when the jogger found him. I'd like to meet the jogger some time. He ran back to his house and got a knife and cut him down. The jogger tried to save him, even though it was probably hours too late. Thank you for trying, from me and my sister both, should you ever read this, kind sir. Thank you for not just standing by, but taking an action, something that at least shows a little that he meant something to someone.

When we'd found all the marks we were going to find, we came around and stood at the base of the imprint, where his legs would have been. My sister took a picture, but I think we'll remember it forever at a far, far higher resolution. And then the three of us, The Nerdy Mr, my sister and I, kicked the wood chips over the dent, because WHO THE FUCK WOULD JUST LEAVE THAT THERE, BEING SO CLEARLY WHAT IT WAS?

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And when I looked up, there was a camera dude from News 12 filming me. I shouted something about how rude it is to film people who are grieving without consent. And the cowardly shit packed up his gear and ran. We beat him out of the lot, because we'd parked farther up the street than he did, lugging all his gear. When he saw us pulling out of the lot, he swerved over the yellow line, nearly hitting another car. He then ran a red light, nearly causing an accident for a second time, so desperate was he to not be held accountable for his actions. (the latter half of that sentence could apply to my brother too, maybe.)

On the way home we made phone calls, to the family, and of course to News 12 to formally inform them that we had been filmed without consent and to request that they not use the footage (if anyone lives in or near Morris County, NJ and sees the footage of us kicking the wood chips, please let us know, because I will sue the shit out of those fuckers. To quote the Nerdy Mr (who was amazing all damn day.) while we were discussing what recourse I had , "I've always wanted a TV station. Our little film studio isn't enough.") I'm going to have my kickass-attorney MIL call them in the morning I think.

I also screamed at someone who tried to merge into us, and possibly made her cry. Not sorry. Not at all. My brother died this morning, the fuck is your excuse? Also, flipping the bird in NJ (where it is not legal to express yourself thusly while in a car) is more cathartic than flipping the bird at home.

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To the person who laughed at my sister for crying, I hope for the rest of your life, every time you laugh, you pee a little. Maybe a lot. You're an asshole, possibly without redeeming qualities.

We called every family member we could find a phone number for when we got home. And now I am emotionally exhausted.

I miss my dog who is on vacation with my In-Laws. It may seem silly to share a dog, but damn if Gracie isn't a lot of work. She's a highly engineered working dog. She needs 4 people's attention, or at least is happier for it. But she was so confused this morning and I want to hug her and cry into her fur and tell her that everything will be okay, even though nothing is okay right now.

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To think, I was going to post about improv tonight. I couldn't even get it up to go. Which is sad, I have a great group, but here I am still spilling water for the dead all over my face and keyboard.

The worst part of it is that it's all over the news.

No, I lied. The worst part is the assholes commenting on shit. I got as far as typing a reply:

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But then I remembered what people on the internet did to poor Zelda Williams, and realized it's probably better not to potentially open myself to more of this shit. So, that's one more piece of this that I'll not get any closure on, just have to absorb and take in for now.

So ladies and gentlemen, consider this my formal announcement that I am accepting all forms of sympathy, charity, well-wishes, reasonable advice and pity, because I just. Cannot. Even.

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Also, if anybody knows about writing obituaries, because my sister and I have lost it so thoroughly today that we just looked at each other and said, "How does one do that?"