Therapy

A week ago my brother left for Iraq. To help his family and friends I set up a blog where I could keep a journal of my own thoughts and opinions during this time, while I relayed any communication we got from him. But the combination has already proved problematic.

I've never been one to hold back my opinions, but something about having a loved one thrust into the midst of the situation I always philosophized about -- it felt unseemly to talk as I once did. Perhaps it was out of sense of helplessness. Perhaps it was a mask for my anxiety. I can't say. But since he's been gone, I've been overcome with speechlessness.

That's not to say the thoughts aren't there. I'm drowning in my thoughts. I need three hours to get to sleep at night because my brain won't stop spinning with thoughts -- ugly thoughts, selfish thoughts, horrifying thoughts. It's relentless. Ironically, I hate my job for its mindlessness, but it seems to be my only respite from the barrage of my own sick imagination.

I've considered seeing a therapist while my brother is away. The chatrooms for military families are largely bitter and ugly, and I'm more thoughtful about this situation than most of the people in there. The few close friends I have are miles away, and I grow impatient with the phone.

Sometimes you just need to look somebody in the eyes. I have much to say, but no suitable ears. If I weren't such a cheap bastard I would already have a therapist. Money is the only thing keeping me from seeking one out. That and I generally think I'm smarter than everybody else, and I would most likely be deconstructing my therapist as they deconstructed me. There are so many ways that could turn into a disaster.

So long story short, a blog is free. I know that the blog I set up for friends and family isn't going to cut it. Already my mother has chastised me for being too "gloom and doom" on there. So, I'll maintain that site with the basics, the essentials, the daisies and kitties, but this site will be much more important for me.

I need a place to be ugly, because it's very hard for me to think in any other terms right now. My mother has to see things in terms of the good my brother is doing, and I wish, for her, I could see things that way.

But the horror for me is simply this: how can I ever reconcile losing a brother to a war, a cause, I don't believe in. I can't. Losing him in Iraq would be as senseless and nihilistic a death as getting hit by a drunk driver.

Of course, I hope for the best, but you can't help but think the worst.

Let the doom and gloom begin.