Dear brother,
I’ve been sick for the last 3 days. Which means no work. Zero productivity. And essentially being confined to my bedroom and living room. What it also means is ample time to think about life.
So I’ve been thinking about whether or not I’m satisfied with my life. I don’t think I am. I’m not particularly thriving in any way. Not the way that we did in Uni or school. Maybe it’s the lack of accountability that comes from living without family/my old flatmates. Or having money that doesn’t really need to be spent on anyone but me. It takes a lot of willpower for me to leave my house.
I told myself it’s because I’m sick. I think it’s true. I’m very tempted to say it’s because of you. My little brother died, so of course I’m sad and tired and don’t want to leave my house. But I’m doing my best not to think about you. I can’t handle it. I’m already tired and sick; I don’t want to remember how devastated I am on top of that.
I know. I’m wallowing in self-pity. Did you do this? I think you did sometimes. But as you got older, you really didn’t. Or you didn’t show us that you did. So really, what excuse do I have?
I did think about you when rewatching Broadchurch yesterday. Or rather, I acknowledged that I was thinking about you. A little boy is murdered. And I know you weren’t, but it feels like you were snatched away from us the same way. I don’t remember if you watched this series, but you’d agree the acting is phenomenal. The way the parents and sister cry and sob unabashedly? Until you’ve done it yourself, you don’t realise how accurate they were.
While I’m sick, I’m just gonna keep floating for now. I think that’s enough. You’d tell me to eventually get my shit together, but maybe floating is ok for now.
Love you so so much,
Acca
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