CHAPTER 5: SHARED SPACE

NOTE: This is where it should have stopped. I still remember one of those sleepwalking nights as though it was yesterday. Because on that particular night my dad decided to confront it. He woke me in the middle of the nightly adventure, yelling at me, that he knew what I was doing, that I was searching for my brother that was gone, dead, never coming back. Truthfully, I don’t remember how I responded to him. But I do know that the “shared space” was already set in place. And I did not have to worry any more about my brother’s return. He was already there. Below is the unedited version of what would later become….CHAPTER 5: SHARED SPACE

What a dream that was. The next time I woke up I was very sick to my stomach. It was about 2:00 a.m. in the morning. I was looking straight down into a toilet bowl. The Valium that had been prescribed for Joe had worn off enough for us both to recognize where we were. I was captured within the body of my little brother; it wasn’t a dream.

When the vomiting was over, we were about to start our nightly ritual of looking in closets and under beds for the body I had lost. One spot I always checked without fail was the wall mounted furnace. I guess I thought that was the place of my personal hell.

No one knows what Joe is doing, only that this weird form of sleepwalking started right after the funeral and happened every night, night after night. This is a terrible place to be. Not awake and yet not fully asleep, searching drawers, under beds and closets. This definitely is not what I wanted, months, of this same nightly ritual. Every night without fails or interruption, looking high and low.

I was stuck here in a sickly twelve-year-old body searching for myself. The search was a nightly task, and at least a few times a week I would be back at this toilet bowl having another bout with vomiting that would not only empty my stomach, but would go far beyond, to where I was only getting rid of a few tablespoons of yellow stomach bile. And then we would go into dry heaves.

I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like his constant illness was Joe’s body’s way of rejecting me. I was trying

to tell him not to fight it. I wanted him to settle in and accept the fact that I was here to stay, not fighting it would be better for both of us.

We stayed fairly sedated on a regular basis. Joe had never tried drugs of any kind before. He did not like the feeling the Valiums had on him. I on the other hand, was enjoying the only high that was available to me. Having to share his space was very hard. Joe and I were nothing alike. He didn’t even get high, just sick.

I didn’t want to be here in this body, and it was easy to tell Joe didn’t want me there. This was going to take a lot of adjustment for us both. Maybe we should get away and go live with mom for a while in Washington. Yeah, that’s what we will do. Things will be better there.

Mom had been trying to get Joe to come there since my suicide. She had no idea she would be getting

a package deal. Mom wanted to keep Joe from going down the same path I had. It was too late. We were both well beyond any help she could offer now.

It was too little, too late. Where was she when we really needed her? There was always the offer to come live with her, but not the demand that should have been there. She knew there was no discipline in my father’s house. The two innocent sons she had left with their father did not exist any longer. The chance to save either one of us was long since in the past.

But here we are, Bellevue, Washington in the winter of 1968. This is a lot different than Southern California. Mom is kind of nice. She cooks and cleans. Her family sits down to dinner together. I say her family because I know I can never really be a part of that.

They talk about school and work instead of how much money they need to put together to buy enough beer to make it through the night. This place is weird. I had heard about real moms like her and real families like this, but I could not ever remember what being around one was like.

Mom had left us for the first time when I was ten and Joe was six. She actually left the whole family, my two sisters included. After a few months she came back and had a baby brother for us. She did not stay long before leaving again. This time she took my sisters and the new little brother with her. I don’t know how the division of children was decided, what was good for the parents or kids, who knows? In any case Joe and I were left with my dad. In a place where the only rule was that there were no rules. What Joe and I needed we stole. Then we lied to dad about where we got it. He always chose to turn a blind eye to whatever we did.

Bringing home a new bike when we had no money, of course one of our friends gave it to us. We were only painting it because we hated the color it had been. Bringing home food from the grocery store without a bag to put it in was the way kids were always sent packing after checkout. Come on dad, with what money did we purchase this food?

We really did not worry about explaining things to dad. He was rarely home. He knew the truth but loved us too much to cause problems for us. Besides, we deserved bikes, food, whatever we wanted. Dad was glad we were able to find a way of getting what we needed. Now after six years without any rules or spending any time with mom we were going to give it a try.

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**Reach out to me at any time. 

I am not only willing, but I also look forward to taking a share of your pain.

Email: David@bondedabrotherslove.com. You will get a caring same day response.

Nothing scripted. 

You are not alone, and you matter.

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If You’re Struggling

If you or someone you love or know is in a dark place, please know you’re not alone and there is help available. Reaching out is a sign of strength, not weakness. There are people ready to listen, ready to walk with you, and ready to help.

Immediate assistance is available:

National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline  

📞 988

Veterans Crisis Line  

📞 1-800-273-8255 (Press 1) | 📱 Text 838255

Survivor Support / Crisis Group  

🌐 https://www.crisishotline.org  📞 832-416-1177

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💡 If you know someone who needs to hear that they are not alone, share this story. Together, we can create echoes of hope that outlast the pain.

For more than five decades, I carried this story in silence. Silence nearly broke me, but telling it is what keeps hope alive.

Bonded: A Brother’s Love : One Bullet. A Thousand Echoes my hope is that it offers understanding, connection, and even a reason to hold on when life feels unbearable.

📖 Order your copy today and join me in breaking the silence. Together we can spread hope, honor the lost, and change the future.