August Brings Back Memories of My Brother’s Murder
I’ve come to expect a resurgence of grief this time each year
Despite feeling tired all of the time, I haven’t been sleeping well. I normally sleep hard, sometimes not even hearing the kids if they need something at night. But lately, I’ve been restless, tossing and turning, my body unable to surrender to the sleep it needs. For the answer to why I’ve been struggling, I look no further than the calendar page.
Amid the end-of-summer bashes and back-to-school busyness of August, I anticipate with dread the anniversary of my brother’s death. Twelve years ago, at a campground in a national forest, my brother and his girlfriend were fatally shot, their bodies discovered by a stranger the next morning.
The pain of their deaths predictably surges up every year, over a span of days in late August: The day my brother and his girlfriend were murdered, the day we actually found out they were dead, the first day I woke up in the morning to the new reality that my brother was no longer alive.
Triggers are part of the grief experience, and over the years I’ve learned to effectively handle the things that trigger an acute grief response. I can now listen to songs that used to make me sob. I no longer feel paralyzed by the question: “How many siblings do you have?” I can utter the word murder, swallowing the bile that used to render me speechless.
As for the trigger I can’t seem to shake? It’s August, and the painful days immediately following the anniversary of my brother’s death: The date on the front page of the newspaper that announced the tragedy, their faces taking up the entire above-the-fold expanse; the date on the programs at the funeral; the second date on his tombstone; the fact that there is even a second date for someone as young, healthy, and happy as my nineteen-year-old brother.
The pain of my brother’s death predictably surges up every year, over a span of days in late August.
As much as I might like to, I can’t fast-forward to September. By now, I’ve acknowledged the dates a hundred times in all kinds of ways. Library due dates and credit card statements. Family members’ birthdays, school functions, social gatherings. Time marches on, and every reminder is like a nail prodding at the scar, leaving me raw and exposed.
I’ve come to expect this resurgence of painful memories and triggers; it actually consumes me for most of the month. Because the murder investigation remains open and unsolved, there’s often a wave of news stories or press conferences, another round of pleas for locals to come forward with information. On top of the immense sadness and grief of losing my brother, I struggle with feelings of anger and disbelief at how his life was taken and how our lives were changed.
I used to think that something was wrong with me, that I wasn’t “dealing” with my grief or grieving in a “healthy” way since a dozen years later the grief can still level me. But grief is complicated. It’s morphed and changed over the years, but it’s something I continue to carry.
And I’ve learned that my body instinctively remembers things about this time of year. Some call this an anniversary reaction or an anniversary effect. Physiologically, my body remembers the trauma it experienced, and it responds in ways I can’t seem to control. Even though I anticipate the emotional toll, I sometimes forget the physical manifestations of my grief.
With August comes the sleepless nights, the migraines, the same violent nightmares I’ve had for twelve years. I’m irritable and short-tempered; I struggle to concentrate. I vacillate between raiding the freezer for more ice cream and going outside for a long run or walk, often returning home unable to distinguish the tears from the sweat running down my face.
People say grief comes in waves, and I’ve realized those waves can be both expected and unexpected. August is a recurring wave of grief for me, one that I’ve learned to anticipate and handle the best I can.
I’ll call my parents more than usual. I’ll text my sisters to commiserate about how all of the comfort eating I’m doing is providing no actual comfort. I’ll show my children pictures of my brother and me at their age, telling them stories about their uncle and how much he would have loved them. I’ll be gentle with myself, taking the time and space I need to continue to heal.
I won’t turn my back on the wave of grief that I know is coming. I‘ll let it drench me, allowing myself to feel all of the painful emotions it carries before washing back out to sea.
Sherri Puzey is the editor of Moms Don’t Have Time to Grieve. She is passionate about normalizing grief and holding space for those who are grieving. Sherri has a degree in international politics and previously worked in finance. She’s traveled all over the world and currently calls Seattle home, where she lives with her husband and daughters.
This essay is part of our Moms Don’t Have Time to Grieve column.
