My brother and I are quite close. We never fought harshly, only spats of annoyance that likely vexed our parents more. Our relationship was typical for siblings: we aggravated each other, but we also cared for each other. No matter what, he had my back, and I had his. 

It has only been a few years since my brother got sick, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It was 2018 when I first heard the news. Physically, he was okay, no broken bones or twisted ankles. It was his mind that plagued him. My brother heard voices, they would shame and belittle him, and there was nothing he could do to silence them. I remember sitting at our small, wooden dinner table, playing crazy train dominoes with a thick, white sheet covering the table. The clinking sounds of dominoes muffled against the blanket, keeping the voices only that much quieter. 

There was a time when I was sitting in church, listening to the pastor. My brother sat on my left, and my mother and father to my right. I remember the soft, flowery aroma of my mom’s perfume as she raised her hand up, to which my brother responded by holding up three fingers. It was a wordless question, one I could pick up on quickly. ‘How loud are the voices?’ The notion asked.  My parents would do it often, almost everywhere we went, they’d do it. My brother once told me it annoyed him.

A lot of time and effort was centered on him that year, and I was fine with that. That December, my mother had let me dye my hair red, which I had been wanting to do for a while. I remember sitting in the swivel chair, the feeling of the silky chair cloth resting on my arms. My mother sat behind me in a zebra printed chair, with her phone out in front of her.

“You know why we allowed you to do this?” My mother put down her phone, looking at me through the mirror in front of my eyes. I can still feel the way her hazel eyes locked onto mine.

She explained that with everything going on with my brother, she and my dad didn’t want me to feel neglected. I assured her then and there that I never felt lesser, and I meant in wholeheartedly. My brother needed to get better, above all else.

The road to my brother’s health was long and winding, with weeds rooting themselves in its cracks. We weren’t sure what exactly was wrong, and he was put on all sorts of medications to figure it out. I remember standing just in front of my black dresser, feet planted in the rough carpet, overhearing my parents talking about him and our next course of action. 

About half way through the year, we did finally get news. However, it wasn’t good news. I was sitting in our dark living room, only the light from the sun through the window in the kitchen illuminated my surroundings. I had been called in by my mom, because something had happened to my brother. Gathered there were my parents, grandparents, me, and finally my brother.

The memory is cloaked in shadow, even through the light outside, reminiscing it feels black and gloomy. It was when I heard the news that my brother had thought of dying, and now he was going to be sent to the nearest mental hospital to get help.  I stood up from the leather couch, approached him, and embraced him, with warm tears running down my cheeks. 

    It was a scary time, likely the scariest of my life. I had heard stories from other families, unfortunate things happening to others, but never did I stop and realize that those things can happen to us too. 

    My brother slowly got better, the time he spent at the hospital helped. We did finally figure out what was wrong, and like coming up for air after diving in a swimming pool, we could finally breathe.

 I’m thankful to God, because I know that without Him, it’s possible my brother wouldn’t be here, going to college, and making a life for himself. Bad things do happen, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We can either give up when times get tough, or stick it out for what God has in store for us later on. It’s important to remember that life goes on; it’s okay when bad things happen.