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🖤

Tell your loved ones how you feel

It's been a week since my brother Jacob passed. He was the last person I expected to go—an extremely active cyclist, hiker, and traveler. We still don't know what exactly happened, but in a matter of only half an hour he went from making his breakfast to his heart stoping. So many of his traits I admired so much felt like things I lacked; he was disciplined, reliable, and energetic. He traveled the world and made friends across the whole globe, it seems. He was always adept at math, a subject I always struggled with. He was only 18 months my junior. I literally can't remember my life without Jacob in it. At some points in our childhood he felt like my shadow. Since we were homeschooled during the early years of my life we spent so much time together. I took that for granted, but now I'm so grateful for all the hours of fort building, hole digging, camping, biking, basketball, getting destroyed by him playing NBA Live and womping on him in Mortal Kombat. I really regret simply assuming he knew how much I loved him. We were brothers. We fought, argued, and teased each-other. He was such an appendage to my day-to-day that I didn't ever stop to tell him how dear he was to me, how proud I was of all he'd done, how grateful I was for all he contributed around the house and with the family, and how jealous I was of his fearlessness with change and travel. People ask how I'm holding up, and it's hard to answer because—all things considered— I am doing alright. The hardest times are when my brain and nervous system still haven't realized he's gone: hearing the creak of a door and expecting him to walk in after a bike ride—his cycling shoes clinking on the tile; learning some soccer news and wanting to text him about it; feeling eager to get his feedback on something I cooked. But the most difficult thing has been encountering the pity and sorrow people have shown toward me, because that somehow reveals the scope of the loss and the depth to which folks cared about him and care about me. Knowing we share some impacts of this loss breaks my heart. I so deeply appreciate all the offers of help and reaching out, and yet I have nothing to offer. I have nothing for which to ask. My brain just short-circuits. Perhaps the best thing you can do for me is to let your loved ones know how you feel. Find one person you have maybe taken for granted and share your love clearly so that they truly know how much you treasure them because they won't always be around.

@theinfamousgdub

May 6, 2024

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This early draft i started writing in 2023 about my observations of a couple of close family members

The events I describe occurred in late 2022 and Jim ended up passing away from complications of his alcoholism in January 2023 (his death convinced my own father to quit drinking). Jim taught me how to shoot and his favorite activity was going to the range. We had countless conversations over black coffee about his childhood in Ireland, the writings of James Joyce, and the film adaptations of Tennessee Williams’s work. He was tremendously charming and had a sharp sense of humor. I was like the daughter he never had and I loved the bastard! May he rest in peace. (Might have to finish writing this…) — “Catherine had a mind like a pit bull.  Whatever the obstacle that presented itself in front of her, she would attack it with unrelenting determination.  She always got her way.  She had never come across a problem she couldn’t fix, except for what her brother had become.   It’s not like she had a lot of money, but she felt it was her duty to help her brother.  She went into thousands of dollars of debt procuring for him new furniture that would hopefully give him a new lease on life: a tasteful grey tweed three-seater sofa; a cozy armchair with a matching footstool befitting a family patriarch; a mid-century modern wooden coffee table; an oversized gold tripod lamp with a barrel shade.    She felt she could trigger a powerful change if she could just replace the trappings of his old life which were so loaded with bad memories — memories from before, in the blink of an eye, it had became apparent to her that Jim was in his final death spiral.  If life looked normal, life could become normal. Denial is a powerful drug, almost as powerful as the liter of Fireball Jim would drink every day, metered out and portioned into little airline-sized bottles so he could retain some semblance of control.  He would hide them in his dresser drawers, outside amongst his tools on the front porch, in the kitchen cabinets, under the bathroom sink.   She would discover them time and time again, after he had promised to her that he would stop.  She would confront him with the evidence each time he betrayed her.  If she could just make him feel an appropriate amount of shame, he would surely see the error of his ways. He had to be drunk all day every day, or he would get the DTs like he had before.  He couldn’t take time off of work to go to rehab, he said; he had already been given a special work-from-home accommodation and was still on the verge of being fired for absenteeism.  And plus, he was running out of days of covered inpatient rehabilitation treatment under Medicare.“

@taterhole

May 14, 2024

3

🕊

A story about the healing grace of forgiveness

It’s stuck with me ever since I first heard it in a Tara Brach course on healing blame and resentment. I remember reading it to my mother on the phone to tell her that I had forgiven her for the immense pain and suffering she had brought me when I was younger, holding back tears until I was sobbing through my words and then we just cried together. She was so grateful to have been redeemed. A beautiful pivotal moment in my life that I never thought could be possible—and I will never forget. 🤍 “One time a man left home. He had argued with his mother and father the day before he left. They spoke horrible words to one another and he left without saying goodbye. He had been gone many years and even spent time in jail. Years later, he finally got out of jail and he wondered if his mother and father were even alive, and if they were ashamed of what had been said and of where he had wound up. He wrote to them and told them he would be coming home on a specific day the following week. If they wanted to see him and were not ashamed they should put a blanket on the clothesline, and he would know to come inside. If the blanket was missing, then he would know that he was not welcomed. He would know to turn back. He told them he hoped they were in good health. The man arrived by rail the next week. He was nervous when he stepped off the train. There was no one there to meet him. He walked up the worn path towards the home place and thought about the past. He thought about his time in jail. He thought about how ashamed his parents must have been. He thought about the horrible words they spoke. He was just about to turn around and go back to where he came when he saw a blanket in a tree. He kept walking and he saw another blanket. He kept walking and he saw another blanket. Then he turned towards home and the house was covered in blankets, the yard was covered in blankets, the clothesline was covered in blankets, the path to the door was covered in blankets. His parents were standing there and they were welcoming him inside.” — Crapalachia: A Biography of Place, Scott McClanahan

@taterhole

Feb 16, 2025

1

Top Recs from @zekehaha

🎥

bones and all

i have never seen a movie better than Bones and All. there is nothing better. america is lonely.

@zekehaha

Dec 17, 2024

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this wwii bomber jacket

good for the rain. good for every fit. imperialistic? a little. “we come from america to save your country.“ bars. this squadron flew over china in the pacific theater to repel the japanese invasion. they weren’t too successful, but it’s a valiant cause. also it’s comfortable and looks good. i found it in the basement of my dorm building. i left it there for a week. nobody claimed it. it’s mine. it found me. i found it.

@zekehaha

Dec 17, 2024

📉

I bought my dad a collection of wendell berry essays

the death of vocation and the loss of place account for the nomadic living my family has experienced. my grandmother was born in san fransisco with no family history. my grandfather was born on a dairy farm that no longer exists. one of my great great etc. grandfathers died while he and his son (my ancestral father) crossed the river to enter pennsylvania. his son watched him drown. but then i was born in colorado, and my siblings now live in ohio. i have never seen a gravestone bearing my family’s name.

@zekehaha

Dec 16, 2024