Only If the Lights Are On

In my July 2 blog post, “A Talk With My Brother,” I asked him—my brother—to be my Guardian Angel. I believe in angels. And I truly believe that when I asked for his help to lift the darkness I’d been carrying, he answered. Not only did he help… he guided me to the very source of this darkness.

Now, for the first time, I’m beginning to process memories I’ve spent a lifetime trying to reach—but never could. I had read about repressed memory here and there, but I never thought it applied to me. When I tried to look back on my childhood, all I ever found was black. Very few images or emotions—just a lot of black walls behind my eyelids.

When I sat quietly with myself, I’d sense something. A cobweb in my brain. An ache in my heart but I couldn’t explain it. Here is my feeble attempt to try to explain...

Did you know that when you look at white—like the background of this screen—you’re seeing all the colors at once? White is what happens when every color shows up to the party. Black, on the other hand, is the absence of color. A complete void.

Lately, it feels like light has finally begun shining into the darker corners of my past. And suddenly—click—so many things about who I am, and why, are starting to make sense.

Here’s the thing: our experiences shape us. They don’t have to define us, but they do sculpt us. Thankfully, we’re wonderfully moldable—at any age.

Take Grandma Moses. She didn’t start painting until her 70s, and by her 80s and 90s, she was a world-renowned folk artist.

She once said, “Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be.”

That quote speaks to me now more than ever. Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is step outside ourselves and see our lives from another angle—not from inside our heads or our pain, but through the eyes of others around us. What might they see? How might they be affected? That kind of perspective shifts everything.

As Wayne Dyer said,

“When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”

Now that I’ve looked back—really looked—I no longer have to carry it all with me. I can lay it down at the cross. The weight has lifted. The light has entered. And I’m beginning to live with a little more understanding, a little more compassion… especially for myself. The light is on now. And I’m no longer afraid of the dark from the past.

I’m sure there are still some cobwebs in there that i will have to deal with, but if the lights on, I’m not afraid.

A Talk With My Brother

"If I were able to have a talk with you today Dave, this is what I would say..."

My journal got an earful today during this visit with you as I poured out everything—an emotional dump like I’ve never shared with anyone before. But I figured, you probably already know, so why not just say it all? Have a real, raw, no-holds-barred conversation with you. I knew you’d understand. We were raised in the same home, share the same blood—and most importantly, I’ve asked you to be my Guardian Angel for something that’s not just big... it’s monumental.

It’s something from my past. A part of me that turns itself inside out and slips into darkness from time to time and I want to be done with it.

I’m trying—really trying—to squeeze that darkness out and replace it with light.

I’m not claiming I’ll stop being bipolar. What I’m talking about goes deeper than a diagnosis. It’s a feeling I’ve carried as long as I can remember—one of being dark, dirty, and scared. But little by little, I’m beginning to let it go. As I understand it more, its grip on me weakens. Healing isn’t quick, but it’s happening.

And that’s what I’m asking from you today, Dave—help me walk through it. Help me through the process.

The reminiscing today has been glorious. I wrote down a bunch of memories—maybe someday your kids will read them. Like the time we went water skiing in the canal, using the motorcycle as a boat. Or when Dad beat the hell out of you for streaking. Yep, those were the streaking days—and even though you were harmless, nobody saw it that way! You “streaked” in a jock strap, in our own yard, over the calf pens with one of the Milkers. None of that mattered to Dad. I tattled on you the next day, and I’ve regretted it ever since. You paid dearly for that shenanigan, and I’m sorry I sold you out.

Remember hide-and-seek on the motorcycles, using every nook and cranny the farm had to offer? Or playing Monopoly in the camper on rainy days—even if the camper was in the driveway? I don’t have a childhood without you, my dear brother.

Eventually, all of us kids got married and started having kids of our own. We’d gather at Mom and Dad’s every Sunday for roast and brownies. All of our kids, now the troublemakers, would make there way to the hay barn to make forts and play with matches. (That hay barn did eventually burn to the ground, lit by one of the kids, luckily not yours or mine.)

As families, with Mom & Dad always there, we went to parades, water parks, and fireworks. We had picnics, went sledding, golfing, and you even talked some of us into going fishing.

But enough reminiscing.

Dave, your death was a turning point in our family’s life. There was life before you died, and life after. I don’t know what life would’ve been like had you lived, but I know one thing for sure: I sure would’ve liked to find out. But I won’t complain our family has been blessed beyond measure.

Thanks for your help along the way, I've felt you hangin' around a time or two. You've sure been gone a long time.