Contributed by Vicki Randolph
Are you a drug user? Do you think your life doesn’t matter? Do you think that if you take your own life, no one will miss you? If you answered yes to any question, please read on.
This is my letter to my younger brother Johnny, written to him on what would have been his 61st birthday. On the morning of April 20, 1989, still drunk and high from the night before, Johnny died by suicide. He was 27.
My dearest brother Johnny, It’s been 34 years. 34 years since the day you decided that your life didn’t matter. 34 years since the morning you decision forever darkened my world, and our mother’s world, and your 7-year-old niece’s world, and our brother’s world, and all your friends’ world. 34 years since you left a mark that influenced five more young men in our small community to take their own life. 34 years since the families and friends of those five young men were forever darkened like ours has been. Six families, and who knows how many people have been forever saddened because of the strangle hold the drugs had on you. 34 years since the State Trooper I had pleaded with to arrest you and get you off the street and into rehab was the first responder to your suicide. 34 years since that Trooper openly wept over you--a young man he never met. 34 years since that Trooper hung up his badge. So many lives were permanently impacted by your decision to end your life. You’ve now been dead longer than you were alive. I miss you. Every day, I still miss you.
34 years. 1,737 weeks. 12,163 days. 291,912 hours. 17,514,720 minutes. 1,050,883,200 seconds. Not one of those seconds has been better without you. Not one of those minutes has been complete without you. Not one of those hours has been spent without a sense of loss. Not one of those days has gone by without me missing you. Not one of those years have gone by without tears…. still missing you.
I want to believe that had you waited one more day, you would have figured a way out of your hell. I want to believe that had you seen in my daughter’s eyes, in my eyes, in our mother’s eyes, in your friends’ eyes, how much we loved you and wanted to help you, you would have waited one more day. I want to believe that you were bigger than the drugs that twisted your mind, numbed your feelings and white-washed your memories. I want to believe that, given one more day, you would have eventually found a place where you were content without trying to escape. Just one more day…
They say that time heals all pain. That’s a lie! Whoever said that never lost someone they loved to suicide. Time does not heal all pain. I have simply learned to live with its constant dark shadow hanging around my heart. There is a Johnny-shaped hole in my entire world. Some days are OK--no tears, just an emptiness in my life where you once stood. I miss you. I miss your quirky smile. I miss your bear hugs. I miss the way you— my little brother—somehow felt the need to protect me--your older sister. I miss your face. I miss that kind heart of yours that was bigger than you are. I miss seeing what you’ve made with your talented hands. I miss arguing opinions with you. I miss you so much it hurts—my heart still hurts. Some days, like today, I hear a song that was popular when you died, and I turn into a puddle. The pain is raw. It is always there. I look at the beautiful spring day unfolding before me and wonder what you would see if you were looking at it with me. Would you notice the pussy willows? Or would you focus on the dry highway pavement calling you to ride your Harley? Would you turn your face toward the sky as I do, relishing in the warmth of sun? Would you be anxious to ride the road and hike the hills of Hatcher Pass? Would you be planning your fishing trips?
Just one more day. Johnny, I want just one more day. Each day, every morning, I would then ask you for another day….and maybe, some 12,163 days later, you would be here enjoying a beautiful day with me, and with your niece who adored you. 34 years have gone by, and I still miss you….so very much.
Your sis, Vicki.