A colleague sent my team this article today entitled, “Mentally Strong People: The 13 Things They Avoid.” It’s a list compiled by a psychotherapist who thought that instead of just focusing on what mentally strong people do, it would also be important to look at what they do not do.

Sometimes, when I am idle and different thoughts are streaming in my head, I remember the first few seconds when I saw my brother for the first time after he jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. He was alone in the Columbarium hall, lying quietly in his casket with yellow roses sprayed over the top. The casket was half open so you could see him waist up. His glasses were on, and he wore the suit my parents picked out along with a shiny purple tie. It was a surreal experience to see him for the first time in four months, not breathing and completely embalmed..all of our shared blood drained out of him. Chris was at my side holding me as we walked up to him, probably that close in case I fainted and someone needed to catch me. Even though I knew he was dead, seeing him with my own eyes was such an excruciating shock. It was like cold electric sparks seeping through my blood stream and causing my breaths to shorten. And where those electric shocks were not being felt on my body, every other part was numb. The only words to come out of my mouth were, “Oh my god” over and over again.

That was the second worst moment of my life, with the first being when I found out he was really gone from this world. In both of those moments, I remember all these morbid thoughts going through my mind, like if someone just decided to run over me in their car or shoot me in the head, it would be okay because I could join Ed in heaven and see him sooner. At least I’ve had experiences I’d been really happy about that I felt enriched my life, like traveling to Asia and Europe, graduating from college, living in another city, falling in love, having a group of close friends. In those moments, I kept thinking about how Ed never had any of that and how much I hated that he didn’t. It just isn’t fair, and I keep thinking about it without even realizing it, and I catch myself.

I can still see his face from that day of his service. It often flashes in my mind when I least expect it. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or bad, but the one thing that is for sure is it always brings a sinking sensation.

This morning, Ed came back again. I dreamt of us at home, and he was telling me that he had a tooth ache. When I looked into his mouth, I noticed that there was some odd, off-white growth at his gum line, right under one of his teeth. When I pressed on it, it was squishy, as though there was pus inside of it. I got worried and told him that he needed to see the dentist right away. He probably had some sort of infection that needed treatment. Because he didn’t have dental insurance, he was hesitant to go, and I said it didn’t matter because I’d pay for his treatment. He reluctantly consented.

Ed was really responsible with his teeth. Probably until the day he died, he wore his retainer and mouth guard (apparently, teeth grinding runs in our family). He brushed his teeth twice a day and flossed thoroughly each night. We were both doomed because of our parents’ genes in the dental department, so we both had braces and retainers twice, and gum surgery (different types, though). That wasn’t fun for us, but I’m sure our dentists and orthodontists were elated because of the extra money in their pockets.

After he passed, we wanted to put his retainers in his casket, but we weren’t allowed to because there was metal in them (you can’t bury anything metal if you are being cremated. Good fact to know). My mother, after a few weeks, reluctantly discarded them. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. What if Ed’s spirit came back looking for them?

I guess it makes sense why around the holidays, those who can’t or choose not to spend Thanksgiving and/or Christmas with their family think about their family a lot. Traditionally, if you have left home for school or work or whatever reason, Thanksgiving and Christmas are the one or two times during the year when you will actually travel home for that family time.

It’s sad, though, when you look back at all those family times when you did travel back, and you never really remember being that excited about it, or you can’t seem to recall any Christmas when everyone genuinely seemed happy to be together. We always hear stories about people dreading the holidays because everyone seems to have one or two crazy aunts or cousins who stress everyone else out, but it’s the worst when it’s you who actually has to deal with that.

But how happy can you really get when you are fighting a battle with depression, and all of your emotions seem to be tainted with a deep sadness? What is the happiest state that is possible then? I may never know. I know that when I used to come home, Ed would always be excited, but I have no idea how to rank that on a scale compared to my own “happy scale” when I am happy.

It’s excruciatingly painful when you can’t understand how someone you love feels and sees the world.

I finally decided to make an appointment to see a therapist, so I had my first session yesterday afternoon. It was an interesting session, and not like what some people imagine in their heads. There was no bed to lie down on, and the therapist did not constantly ask, “So how did that make you feel?”

Actually, what it did feel like… it felt like I was verbalizing my family’s long history over the last three generations. These are all the reasons that Ed was who he was, and why I am who I am. I realized while going through each story that every story has multiple backstories; nothing is really simple or clear cut in my family. The reasons why things have happened don’t always make sense, yet in my head, they have always made sense. Saying all of this out loud made me painfully aware of this.

I’ve spent most of my life, even now, holding in a lot of secrets, big and small. Even my closest, best friends don’t even know half the things that I’ve gone through and had to experience. It certainly hasn’t been healthy or rational, but I partly listened to my mom because she always said, “Don’t tell anyone.” The therapist acknowledged how stressful that must be. The truth is that I don’t want to keep secrets anymore; I want everything to be out in the open. The problem there, though, is that if you choose to reveal all these secrets, who are you telling who will genuinely, really care?

We ended the session with discussing how I felt about Ed and if I was angry with him.  I was angry with him in the beginning, but that anger very quickly diminished and became an “I can’t really blame him” feeling. I love my brother, and I completely understand how he felt. No one else knows him like I did. Who knows – if I were in his shoes, maybe I might have done the same thing. I can never know that. No one can. But I know why he did what he did. That’s how scared he was. That’s how depressed he was. And that was how lonely he was.

I made my therapist cry. Maybe I should write a book one day that exposes all of my family’s deep, dark secrets. Maybe then, Ed and I will be fully set free from our demons.

We’re celebrating Thanksgiving early this Saturday. Chris’s brother is visiting from Toronto for the weekend, and my best local friend and her boyfriend are joining us for dinner. We’re going to be traveling in Germany for actual Thanksgiving, and because I can’t get enough of Thanksgiving-type cooking, I insist on having a semi-traditional meal cooked at home every year now before we leave on a trip.

I remember the Thanksgivings when Ed and I were together. Sadly, the last Thanksgiving we actually celebrated together was in November 2003, my senior year of high school before I left for college. Traveling 3,000 miles home for Thanksgiving during college was never an economical idea, and the years after, because my family is religiously broken and no one seems to agree on Thanksgiving and how to celebrate, there remained no reason for me to travel west. So I hosted my orphan Thanksgivings with friends. The two times I did, in 2008 and in 2010, I remember wishing Ed could be there because I knew he was probably having a crummy day with my parents. My cousins and their families had abandoned him. I contemplated flying him out to New York the next time I hosted Thanksgiving, or flying to San Francisco to be with him in the future… that is, before he left me this year. I guess I will never have the opportunity to do any of those things.

I remember how difficult he and my parents used to be during Thanksgiving. Ed never offered to make anything since he wasn’t ever confident in his culinary abilities, but he would always complain about how many dishes there were (he had dish duty; it was only fair). He’d also warn me when I would make food for our cousins’ gatherings because my mom was insistent that we didn’t give my dad the leftovers and tell me that my mom would yell at me if I didn’t set aside food from the platter for my dad first. He had to have the first scoop. Since my mom is a Jehovah’s Witness, she wouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and because my dad felt sorry for her and didn’t want her to be alone, he would eat with her that night while Ed and I went upstairs to celebrate with our cousins. One year, I got yelled at pretty badly just because I brought the stuffing platter upstairs, to then scoop my dad stuffing and bring it down. My mom admonished me severely and said I wasn’t putting my dad first… even though the first thing I did when I got upstairs was to scoop my dad a plate and bring it back down. Apparently, I should have served that before going upstairs. Ed tried to defend me, but of course, he got yelled at, too.

My cousin and his wife would come from Redwood City with macaroni and cheese… because their daughter only ate that. They’d eat the food, say it was good, and then rush back to Vallejo to be with the wife’s side. They’d never offer to help clear the table or wash dishes. That apparently wasn’t their job, even though they’re family.

Ed never has to deal with such petty drama ever again. I’m never going to celebrate Thanksgiving again with people who are ungrateful or nitpick or just think Thanksgiving is stupid.

I’m not a concise person. If you have read this blog or been following me, you will know that I have the tendency to keep going on and on. Word counts always annoyed me. And then because of my anal side, when I do have a word count limit, I spend way too much time trying to edit and cut what I have written.

However, I would think that in my lack of brevity that maybe if I kept going on and on, people might understand me better. They’d be provided with way more examples of why I feel what I feel, and maybe they’d be able to empathize a little bit more.

I think I give people the benefit of the doubt too often because I don’t really think this has happened. I’m still misunderstood.