Here I am again. Hospital. VA. It’s my brother this time. Sometimes it’s my sister and MOST times it’s my other sister, and once or twice it has been me. But today it’s him. So here we sit in the waiting room, hoping it will be okay. I’m tired of waiting rooms and I’m tired of hospitals. I wish mental illness didn’t exist. I wish no one in my family had been abused. I hate depression, anxiety, addiction, and PTSD. I hate myself for not being able to be okay and I hate my parents for allowing these monsters to infect us all.
I want to tell my brother that I couldn’t take losing him; that I’ve been through enough. Then I realize that would be making it about me so I stay silent. Anyway, he already knows. We all know, every one of us; we know it. We know what it’s like to be on both sides of that hospital bed and what it does to us, in either case. I look at the wires, the monitors, and I remember how much better it feels when they’re attached to YOU. Because then you have control. I want to have control. I’m exhausted.
I miss my other brother so fucking much. If he were here, things would be better. WE would be better. I hate hospitals. I hate waiting rooms. I hate it here.