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My brother Jeff decided to end his life with a shotgun in early 2008, in a motel room at a ski resort in upstate New York. In the spirit of keeping this brief, I will gloss over him by saying that he was the most remarkable person I ever met in my life. He lived balls-out and fearless, trying to make it in New York as an actor. He was never rich when it came to money but had an abundance of friends and dreams. He was such a great actor that he fooled everyone in the family until the very last moment, his pain and anguish never revealed until after he decided to end it…

What brought all this up was the recent suicide of my friend Michael on Christmas Day in San Diego — like Jeff, it was a shock. It always is, to family and friends, because we see them only from the outside; we see their humor and charm and what they decide to show us. Michael was out celebrating with friends at the Ye Ould Sod, singing karaoke and drinking. He said goodbye around 1:00 a.m. and drove home. Michael updated his Facebook status, saying:

“This is a long time coming, please ­don’t blame yourself.”

He then jumped off the 805 overpass to his ­death.

I figure my brother was probably bi-polar, like Mike. I say this because when Mike was happy, he was the most charming, charismatic, outgoing person ­you’d ever seen. ­He’d graduated from Berkeley and was working at the Wild Animal Park, following his passion for animals. My brother Jeff was the same. He starred as Joey in the Dinner Theatre production of Joey and ­Maria’s Comedy Italian Wedding, and appeared in a number of plays, and won numerous awards from Actors Alliance. Both these kids, they were on the right track and following where their hearts, not their wallets, took ­them.

With my brother, the pendulum always swung. It caused him great amounts of regret, sorrow, and guilt over the friends ­he’d lost in high school and in the ­navy.

The moment of ­Jeff’s death, my mother was walking the aisles of a grocery store and suddenly stopped. “I ­can’t describe it,” she said. “I just felt empty. I left my cart in the aisle full of groceries, drove home, and laid on the couch…I have never felt so ­empty.”

­Jeff’s girlfriend Mel, who had just received a goodbye text, frantically tried to reach him on his cell phone. Her dog leapt from the couch and began barking at an empty corner in her room; he circled repeatedly and went on barking at the empty corner. Mel put him outside and continued dialing. At the same time, a friend of ­Jeff’s in San Diego was thinking of him and had a strange feeling, and at that moment the light bulb above Mel, the one she used to read with, blew ­out.

I should stop here and explain that I was an atheist and ­didn’t believe in a higher power. I ­didn’t then and still ­don’t subscribe to the hippie-looking guy who died and started moving rocks and makes water into wine, nor the guy up above who hates gays, tells preachers not to get married, wants you to always donate to him, and created earth in just under a week. I think ­it’s a crock. I also ­don’t believe in ghosts or the tooth fairy. In fact, when my brother died, I was at a local bar pounding back a few beers. A good friend of mine was telling me about his past depression and that he had once been ­suicidal.

“See, I just ­don’t get that,” I said. “How can you want to just quit? I hate weak people, life is hard for everyone, you just got to power through it, know what I mean? We ­don’t have it that bad. Hell, imagine life in India or Nigeria, for poor people who are suffering, yet they still find strength to go on…Stop being such a ­puss!”

I ­won’t go into more detail about that day because I have it surrounded by a 50-foot wall that is guarded 24/7 by ninjas and SEAL teams and surrounded by a moat with alligators. Anytime I mentally try to go there, I am forced back by the guards and told to leave the area. It is a good safeguard, and I often wonder if other survivors of suicide loss do this as ­well.

After Jeff died, my mother began receiving all sorts of signs. Books about mediums and spirit guides that Jeff had bought her years ago started appearing all around the house. Everyone in the family began to have dreams with him in them, where he was reassuring us that he was okay. I have never had dreams so vivid that they made me question which reality was true. I felt that he was alive in those dreams and that we were having long ­conversations.

In other strange news: ­Mel’s bra would come unhooked while walking down the street, and she swore it was Jeff. My radio and car alarm would go off randomly, either while I was driving or just sitting in the ­car.

This was all written off by me as random bullst. I put no stock in poltergeists or Jeff having a bit of fun from the other side. It would be easy to think that it was him and that he was in a better place than the alternative, which I saw as nothingness. My greatest fear was that my brother had simply ceased to exist, that he ­wasn’t in heaven or hell, just…gone.

My mother asked my brother for understanding and help. She sought to find a trustworthy medium who would be able to help her get answers as to the ­WHY.

One afternoon my mother came home to find her roommate Mike and his friend Joe drunk, high, and passed out in the living ­room.

She made them coffee and got them on their feet, so they could sober up a bit. They had been out partying the night before in downtown Chicago. ­Mike’s friend got up from the couch and asked my mother, “Do you have a son named ­Jeff?”

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Comments

David Dodd May 28, 2010 @ 2:06 p.m.

Hey, Frank, great story man. He'll never disappear, because you'll carry him with you for the rest of your life. Stay sane.

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AEonFlux May 28, 2010 @ 5:39 p.m.

Hi, Frank. My name is Erin and Jeff was a friend of mine from The Company at Mesa. We were even roommates for a while at the Athabaska house. Smartass and used-car salesman though he could often be, I've rarely met someone so quietly generous as Jeff. He could sense flagging self-esteem and would counter it with just the right compliment, or reverse a rotten day with some random present from one of the thousand pockets of his cargo pants. And in a couple of rare moments he was generous enough to share a slice of that pain he was carrying around with me. I always wished there was something I could do to help, but he just seemed more comfortable being the support than accepting it...I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Anyhow, my mystical Jeff experience is that there are several songs that unmistakeably mean Jeff to me--"Murder, She Wrote" from the Save the Last Dance soundtrack, "Breakfast at Tiffany's", a few others, and whenever one comes on my iPod, they usually all come on in a group. It used to make me sad, but now I just think of it as him stopping in to say, "Hey, what's up?" and reminding me that I still haven't read the Robert Aspirin books he lent me, so I need to get on that.

Thanks for sharing this story, I really miss that bright light being in the world.

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