That's What Blogger Friends Are For

Today's guest post is from Maggie at OkayFineDammit. She had taken a sanity hiatus from blogging and through, TheBloggess, I was introduced to her, and her many, MANY, ecstatic fans, the day she came out of hiding . She is an amazing writer and, well, I just like her, dammit! That is why I'm honored to host this post for her - one that, for reasons you will understand momentarily, she could not put on her own blog but sorely needed to write. I'm happy to give her a safe place to express herself. That's what blogger friends are for.

When Merlot Mom asked me to guest post here, I about went out of my mind with glee. Honestly, no one has ever asked me to guest post before, and I was overwhelmingly ecstatic and humbled by her request -- just ask her how quickly I responded. I still feel that way, though so much has changed since then.

Originally, the plan was to dig through Merlot Mom's archives; get to know her tone, figure out what inspires her; find words that wouldn't sully her space in her absence.... I didn't know what I would write, I just knew that after reading through her archives, I'd have a pretty good idea, and I'd go from there.

And then something happened. Last night, my brother tried to kill himself.

I don't know when this will post, but as I'm writing these words, I haven't slept for sixteen hours. I did not complete the article that was due today, nor have I bothered to contact my editor with an excuse. I have not showered. I have not even brushed my teeth. I am suffocating on verbal vomit, physically choking back words not safe for use on my own blog.

We're all writers here, right? Isn't that why we blog and gobble up other blogs so voraciously? We all can identify with the urge to wrestle our vaporous inner demons until they solidify on the page, to mark ourselves present in life's roll call, to say, "I'm here, dammit!" no matter how bad it gets. To be seen, acknowledged; to be validated. To work through things we can't understand until we've seen them for ourselves, by the grace of our own fingers dancing across the keyboard.

I've come to depend upon my blog as a sacred space that helps me figure out what I think, helps me name how I feel. It's indescribably therapeutic, and that's why it's so debilitating, to be like this: muzzled.

I get personal on my site, but never at the expense of those who did not ask to be revealed. I respect that my family and friends did not make the choice I did, to expose their veiny underbellies to the world. There is no way in hell I would ever say, on my own blog, that I was destroyed, vacuumed out, chewed to bits -- flat-out fish-knife gutted -- by the events of last night. I don't mind a bunch of Internet acquaintances knowing that I have an alcoholic, bipolar younger brother -- I am not ashamed. And because his story is inextricably interwoven with my own life's tapestry, one could argue I have the right to expose its weave if I so choose. But my blog is widely read by people I do know in real life, and so I draw the line. These words, his pain, my own undoing -- it's not for public entertainment. What's left today of his soul is not for sale, at least, not by me.

Still, I know myself well enough to know that at least part of the paralysis I felt today came not only from the aftershock of last night's scene (hunched helpless on the floor at 2:00am, waiting for the inevitable gunshot to shatter my cellular's speaker phone, the painful grating of his words to his wife, and to me, meant to cut, meant to destroy, the hours that passed like minutes, the arrival of the police, the heart-smashing vision of him in handcuffs, the sobbing puddle I became, the lack of sleep up until this minute), no, it didn't come only from that scene; it came from the inability to use my words to make sense of it. To write the post I needed to write, but couldn't. And so I stayed right here, in bed, all day, teeth un-brushed, body unmoved, article unwritten, its words wedged tight behind the dam of these other, unspeakable ones.

Until I remembered Merlot Mom's offer, and saw it for the true gift it was. Until I knew exactly what I would write here.

I cannot link to this post on my own blog, unfortunately. I cannot promote Merlot Mom's site on mine the way I wish I could. There are ways I'll circle around it, I'm sure; maybe I'll Twitter, maybe I'll email some of you and point you here -- but there will not be a mention of this on my own blog. If you, by chance, travel over there to comment, I will welcome your words, but I hope that you will not cite specifics. I want you to see these words, but I would never want my brother, nor anyone who knows him, to read what's been written here today.

Ohhhh, but how it has helped already. I don't even feel the pressure to turn this into an essay, to circle back and stun you with its profundity. I don't know what it means, what the lesson is, what move I will make next. I just know that today, I've been given a gift, an astonishing gift, to freely speak the words that have held me hostage all day long.

Last night, my very drunk, very sick brother held a loaded gun to his head for hours and I did not know what the outcome would be. He survived, for now, and, you know what? So did I. In no small part because I was able to say it aloud, here. Just to speak its name, suicide, no details necessary. No neat, tied up post, no promising mantra for tomorrow.

There is only one thing I know about what's going to happen next.

I'm going to get out of bed, walk the sweet, familiar path into my bathroom, and finally brush my teeth.