Almost two months ago on the 28th of February, my brother died of an overdose, cocaine laced with fentanyl, he was 22. On March 1st in the morning, I received more calls than usual, I didn't know about it yet. My mom called but ignored it, almost everyone in my immediate family called, but I ignored every single one of them because I wanted to sleep. I joked to myself that someone must be dead if everyone is calling me, but still, I slept. At 10 am, my older sister called for the 10th time, so I decided to pick up, she sounded off, she was telling me to call my aunt, and I kept asking her what was wrong until she said: "he's gone". I immediately burst into tears, I had a huge panic attack, and she told me that my aunt was picking me up and bringing me to where she and my brother lived. I called my aunt, and she told me exactly what happened in the most nonchalant voice, that he had died the previous night of an overdose and that the suspected it was laced with fentanyl. I wanted to punch her. She told me to pack and that she was on her way to pick me up. As soon as she hung up, I slumped against my bed and started crying, I cried so much I believed my eyes would dry up. I listened to his favorite songs and packed and took breaks to cry. That same day I made it to where my sister was. As soon as I saw her I never wanted to let go, and continuously told her I loved her. Even then I still didn't believe it was true, I didn't believe that my older brother was taken from me, I didn't believe that the last time I had ever talked to him was two months prior when I moved. Soon enough my parents arrived, and everyone was talking about funeral arrangements and how it's such an epidemic and some of my family members told me they weren't surprised by how he died. I had nightmares every single night, yet I still believed I would see him again, and that it was all a bad dream. the Thursday after he died was the day where we got to go see his body, I didn't want to see him because it would confirm it, but I had to say goodbye. I had panic attacks in the pews at the church where we had his viewing, I gripped onto one of his teddy bears for dear life. When I got up to go see him, I didn't want to leave, he was so cold yet I couldn't pull my hand away, and I swear I saw his chest going up and down as if he was breathing. I didn't want to leave him, I couldn't, I wanted to stay with my big brother who protected me, I didn't want to believe I had lost him. He was laying in that casket, and I just wanted to pull him out, he didn't belong in there, I wanted to shake him and tell him to get out. I was so mad and sad, yet at the same time, I felt nothing. I went outside because I couldn't breathe, and give him one last goodbye and one last kiss on his forehead, and I told him how much I loved him, how much his friends loved him, how much my sister and parents loved him, and I left. I sat outside the church in the rain playing with a worm, just feeling nothing but everything at the same time, I wanted to cry but I had no more tears left. I just didn't understand how he could be gone, I may be 19, but it didn't make sense, how a couple days before I was talking to him about money, nothing sentimental just money. At least the last words we shared in person were "I Love you". The next day was his funeral. I wanted to run out of there, I didn't like it, he didn't even like church. But I spoke at the funeral because I needed to, I needed to say goodbye, I needed him to know how much he means to me, how much I love him. Right before I got up to go speak I broke down, but my big sister was right behind me to help, I said everything I needed to say, but it still didn't feel like enough. I miss him more than I can even comprehend, every day I think about him, and think about how he should be here. How he should have been here to celebrate my birthday with me. Before I left to go home, I went through his things, I found a bunch of things I had given him that I didn't think he kept. And I didn't want to leave his bed or his room because that was the final place he was. I wish he was still here. 

I wish I could say i've been coping with it well, but I haven't this is the first time since he's died that i've really talked about it. I don't talk to my family, I don't even take my meds for depression and anxiety because I feel like there's no point. And while I want to get better, I also feel there's no point anymore, and I'm terrified i might hurt myself again or worse, yet just thinking about it gives me a sense of relief. I don't want my parents to lose another child, but I don't know how to get better anymore.