I awoke at 5:15 a.m. on the day my only brother took his life. That moment is forever etched in my memory. There is a 12-hour time difference between us, and when I checked my phone that Sunday morning, I saw messages from Arman. They were full of sadness, a glimpse of the deep pain he had been carrying. And then—silence.
“My story is very complex”. I would repeat these words often to the psychologists and others to whom I turned to during my months of personal crisis. This loss had turned my own thoughts to suicide, but with their guidance and the loving support of my husband and close friends, I am once again able to face my future.
My relationship with Arman was not the usual one between siblings. I was the oldest in the family, and from the moment my mother placed him in my arms, I felt as though I had been given my firstborn son. That sense of love and responsibility shaped everything I felt for him.
It was in 2017 that Arman first admitted to me that he had become overwhelmed by depression and had no idea how to handle it. I had been living in Canada for several years and although we were always in touch, I had no idea how serious his problem had become.
It was difficult for me to understand as my brother was always cheerful, full of life, surrounded by friends, and successful in his career. I advised that he should seek help, even sending money for his treatments. Speaking with my parents and my sister, I realized that they were totally unaware of the seriousness of Arman’s struggle. Even when he took to his bed, could no longer work, and spoke of his desire to end his life, they still did little or nothing.
My feelings of the impending tragedy became reality when, at about eight o’clock, my sister called to tell me the police had discovered Arman’s body. I had spent over two hours trying to reach him, family members, and friends, but now it was over.
He was gone–no longer able to wait for the love and acceptance he needed from his family.
My already aching heart shattered completely. I was drowning in grief, rage, and–worst of all–guilt and self-blame. Would it have been different had I been there? I will never know.
It took months for me to come to terms with the depth of this tragedy and its impact on my own life and those around me. Before the first anniversary of his passing, I began to write poems again, something I had not done since high school. There are no restrictions on this style of writing. Every line of every poem carries the weight of my tears. Deep emotions poured out and eventually, they became my way out of grief and on the path to healing.
My pain will never go away, but now I have the desire to keep living and keep alive the memory of my beloved brother. Arman was a fine young man, full of charm, beauty of soul, and a big heart. He was gifted, successful, and generous. I will miss him always.
Excerpt from the book "FIVE A.M. THE SILENCE AFTER GOODBYE"
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