Dear Mikey
Dear Mikey
Dear Mikey,
I refused to believe it at first. You were going to be fine. You were my little brother, you were Mikey Way, you were always fine, no matter how what happened, you were fine. So you were going to be fine now. The doctors didn’t know you, they didn’t know how strong you were. You were going to come round, and be normal, and they’d talk about you as the miracle patient who survived, by being strong enough to fight everything, to repair your brain using pure willpower. I wished this would be true so hard, and I convinced myself it was. Frank tried to make me realize the truth, but I refused to listen. I finally had the chance to get my brother back, not the depressed man you had become, but my annoying, poker faced little brother, and I wasn’t going to let anything as silly as reality get in the way.
And then, of course, you didn’t get better. You came round,but you weren’t Mikey. You were someone else, someone who lay in his bed for hours watching children’s T.V, someone who needed help showering, walking. A child in an adult’s body. Brain damaged. I know it’s still you, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore. You’re not my brother, you’re one of those people you see staggering down the street with a helper, who you shoot a sympathetic glance at and count your blessings you have a normal family.
Alicia moved to England. I don’t blame her for that – Everywhere she turned there were reminders of you. The family constantly offering their condolences, the music magazines announcing why our album wouldn’t be coming out any time soon, the newspaper headlines: My Chemical Romance Bassist Attempted Suicide: Left brain damaged. She blames herself, we all blame ourselves. If only we’d done something to help, thought of the right things to say to you when you were feeling down, gotten you out of that damn house sooner.
Frank and Jamia, and Ray and Christa, visit you often, but you don’t know who they are. They’ll sit and talk to you for hours, about all the small details of their day. Frank bought one of his dogs once, you loved that.
I wish I didn’t, but I sometimes find myself thinking it’d have been easier if you’d just succeeded in killing yourself. Then we could have mourned, and gotten one with our lives, instead of this constant reminder of the fact we let you get so miserable that you tried to smother yourself with a plastic bag.
I can’t tell you any of this, of course. Whenever I try, you shush me or look confused, so I’m writing this all in a letter instead. And, since this is just a letter, since it’s completely private, I think I can be selfish for once. Just this once.
Please, please come back Mikey. I’d give up my house, the band, I’d even divorce LynZ, if it meant I could get you back. Because I need you back. I’m not sure how much longer I can cope without you. So please, just pull yourself out of whatever corner of your brain you’re hiding in and become my little brother again.
If you don’t, I think mom will end up with two sons who’ve tried to kill themselves.
G XXX
I refused to believe it at first. You were going to be fine. You were my little brother, you were Mikey Way, you were always fine, no matter how what happened, you were fine. So you were going to be fine now. The doctors didn’t know you, they didn’t know how strong you were. You were going to come round, and be normal, and they’d talk about you as the miracle patient who survived, by being strong enough to fight everything, to repair your brain using pure willpower. I wished this would be true so hard, and I convinced myself it was. Frank tried to make me realize the truth, but I refused to listen. I finally had the chance to get my brother back, not the depressed man you had become, but my annoying, poker faced little brother, and I wasn’t going to let anything as silly as reality get in the way.
And then, of course, you didn’t get better. You came round,but you weren’t Mikey. You were someone else, someone who lay in his bed for hours watching children’s T.V, someone who needed help showering, walking. A child in an adult’s body. Brain damaged. I know it’s still you, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore. You’re not my brother, you’re one of those people you see staggering down the street with a helper, who you shoot a sympathetic glance at and count your blessings you have a normal family.
Alicia moved to England. I don’t blame her for that – Everywhere she turned there were reminders of you. The family constantly offering their condolences, the music magazines announcing why our album wouldn’t be coming out any time soon, the newspaper headlines: My Chemical Romance Bassist Attempted Suicide: Left brain damaged. She blames herself, we all blame ourselves. If only we’d done something to help, thought of the right things to say to you when you were feeling down, gotten you out of that damn house sooner.
Frank and Jamia, and Ray and Christa, visit you often, but you don’t know who they are. They’ll sit and talk to you for hours, about all the small details of their day. Frank bought one of his dogs once, you loved that.
I wish I didn’t, but I sometimes find myself thinking it’d have been easier if you’d just succeeded in killing yourself. Then we could have mourned, and gotten one with our lives, instead of this constant reminder of the fact we let you get so miserable that you tried to smother yourself with a plastic bag.
I can’t tell you any of this, of course. Whenever I try, you shush me or look confused, so I’m writing this all in a letter instead. And, since this is just a letter, since it’s completely private, I think I can be selfish for once. Just this once.
Please, please come back Mikey. I’d give up my house, the band, I’d even divorce LynZ, if it meant I could get you back. Because I need you back. I’m not sure how much longer I can cope without you. So please, just pull yourself out of whatever corner of your brain you’re hiding in and become my little brother again.
If you don’t, I think mom will end up with two sons who’ve tried to kill themselves.
G XXX