Why

My entire reason for starting a Blog was to be able to have a place to wish my brother a Happy Birthday. Just sort of a (very) neo-pagan kind of way to send him a wish. Yes, I've written it on a piece of paper, burned the paper and "sent" it out to him. But I wanted something more permanent. A place where I (and anyone else who may choose to) could go and see that someone remembered. Someone cared and still cares. I know I'm certainly not the only one who remembers and cares, but I just thought there should be some sort of marking of the day. It's still "his" day. I don't have to worry if I'm upsetting someone by "saying it out loud." If I'm reminding them of hurt and pain they'd rather not unbury just now or just yet. And so here I am. This isn't the first blog I started for this purpose, but this one feels right. I think this will last. His birthday has passed this year, but I'll be here next year and remember him.

So, officially, this is for my brother: William Edward Marbaker. Born January 21, 1967. Died May 25, 2002. Son, brother, father, uncle. Smart, funny, the most beautiful, pure heart I've ever encountered. No one could make me laugh harder. Tears, not able to breathe laughter. I've laughed and laughed really hard. Even cried with laughter and lost breath since he's been gone. But never as long or as hard. He was the twin of my soul. We looked alike. We thought alike. We felt things so very deeply. I found my way through it and with it. He never could. He tried so hard. He fought so long. I truly believe his little (although it was HUGE, truth be told) heart just couldn't take the hurt and pain of this world. He was born out of his time. He understands now. He rests now. He's whole now.

And if I'm speaking the truth (and that is one thing I'll always do) the other side of him was not pretty. No one could make me laugh so much, so hard, with such abandon. And no other person did, or ever will, cause me so much pain. So very many tears. So much anger. Hurt. Sadness. RAGE.

William was bipolar. Manic-depressive. An alcoholic. Was the alcoholism a symptom of the disease? Which came first? It certainly did exacerbate it. There is so much history that needs to be told. So very many tragedies. Certainly more than a young boy/man should have ever had to deal with. By his sixteenth year he a lost more friends than I can begin to count. Horrible deaths. The favorite math teacher/wrestling coach. Killed helping another teacher put an antenna on the other teacher's roof. Electrocuted. The friend that had diabetes and died at the age of 14. Our cousin Billy, killed playing football. Another friend that went into the wood and shot himself in the head, aged 15. Two different friends, two different mass murders, mass family killings. In the one case the boy lived, although he is blind and brain damaged. His mother, father, and brother dead. His sister the one who killed them. He was 12. In their beds, while they slept. The other child didn't live. He was killed by his sister's "ex" boyfriend. In that house: Mother, 2 daughters, 2 sons. He shot at the baby and miraculously missed. Then he went upstairs to the bathroom, turned off the light and shot and killed himself. One of the daughters was my friend. I was there when it happened. I heard the shots, heard the screams. Heard when the screams abruptly stopped. And wondered why I lived. But that's for another day, perhaps. William carried all of these friends to their graves. I can't imagine what it must be like to feel the weight of your friend and know he's gone, you're holding him, but yet not. Certainly all of this had it's effects. All of these friends and more. Car accidents, his grandfather dying and having to be the one that told me our grandfather had passed. Our parents house burning when he was, what? Thirteen? They were in the house, our sister, pregnant, across the road, not know where they were. "Are they out?" William, out, alive, nothing but his underwear. Seeing everyone safe. Ten years later when our sister's house burned. The first one there, bring food. Working. Salvaging. He was in the Gulf war.

He found the drugs and drink early. Unfortunate that anyone has to find them at all. Tragic for some. I was one of his older sisters. Yes, I know he learned from me.

And it got so bad. I had to call the police one night. On my brother. He tried to kill me that same night. Tried to kill his girlfriend. Burned her clothes. The next day or two trying to kill me again. A screwdriver in his hand. Me, knowing this was no longer my own. Me, trying to shield this from his children. Taking his kids away with me. He held my family hostage one night with a needle. Threatened to kill them, himself. So many threats of death. Himself. Others. Trying to get him help. "He's bipolar, he'll need in-treatment to start. Hopefully we can manage this with meds in the future. No insurance? Oh, no, no. He's fine. Mistake. Depression. Alcohol. Send him home, he'll sober up in a few days. He'll be fine." He was fine alright. Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional. Just FINE. He checked himself into the VA. They did their best by him I believe. Got him on meds. AA. He got a job. Driving truck. Again. The company found out he was bipolar. (He told them, he had to be honest, felt he was lying if he didn't tell them. Didn't matter he'd be diagnosed and undiagnosed a million times.) They told him to take some time off. Check with their Dr. That Dr. changed his meds. He had nothing but time. Nothing to do. Think, drink. Mom and his younger son saw him that day. Well his car anyway. The beautiful Camaro he had just bought, parked at the bar. His son begged to go in the bar and get him. Mother was at the end. Time to say no. Couldn't take the child in there to see what mess there might be this time. It would be home to them soon enough. He came home (he was staying with our parents at this point), got a box of crackers and took them into his room. Apparently he ate a few. Changed clothes perhaps. A shirt maybe. Went back out to a different bar. I don't know what happened there. If anyone does, I've not heard. He was coming back home. The girl in the other car was 17 years old. She would have graduated that June. It was 2:00 a.m. She wanted to be a special education teacher. She lived until 8:30 a.m. William was dead at the scene. Dead, I think, before he flew out the sun roof and skidded across the pavement. Before the flames started licking at his body. Before his ear was cut off and his arm severed. Too much information? Are you still with me? He was starting the most beautiful Viking tattoo on that arm. I can't grieve. Not fully. How does one feel bad for the man that left two amazing, handsome, intelligent children? He took a 17 year old girl with him. How do I live with that? How do I tell people how my brother died? Yes, people do ask. I know, I have seen, heard, felt the hate that child's, that beautiful, amazing, intelligent, giving, 17 year old girl's family has for me and mine. I can't blame them. I wish peace for them. I wish peace for us all. I'm so very, very sorry. And I can't fix it. Words don't help. Does William deserve to be remembered any other way other than the man, the drunk driver that killed a young woman?

I'm not asking for sympathy. As a matter of fact, I'm not asking for anything. Not for me, my family or my brother. I just needed to tell this. To have it written down. And once a year to say "Happy Birthday William."