A Pirate Who Looked at 43
Benny Boyok, a truly one-of-a-kind man. A very successful commercial fisherman on the Baring Sea for over 20 years, spending more than half of his year on the sea, whilst reading hundreds of books per year. When he was home, you could find him working on his motorcycles, playing on the mountain, watching sports, cooking an amazing meal for his loved ones, losing his keys/wallet/phone, and teaching his kids something new with his absolutely impeccable patience. Ben was very intentional with his time, always made you feel seen, absolutely lit up every single room he entered with his contagious laugh and goofy dance moves, and approached every conversation and interaction without bias or judgment.
Unfortunately, at the young age of 43, and I, 31, my brother lost his life way too soon in a car accident, leaving me with the gutted feeling of isolation, guilt, crippling anxiety, and truly not recognizing myself. Two years after Ben’s accident, my grief numbness began to thaw, and I was trying to navigate my new normal, but I was not doing well. My best friend Chelsey simply expressed, “One of the worst things about Ben dying is that it doesn’t matter how much I want to help; there is absolutely nothing I can do to make you feel better because I literally do not understand how you feel.” Although Chelsey could empathize with me because she simply loves me, she does not know what it feels like to lose a sibling at 31, nor did anyone I was around. What she did next truly changed my life – Chelsey googled “non-religious grief groups in Dallas.” Not that I am against grief with religion, I am a very analytical person who needs to process my feelings in black and white with zero outside perspectives.
The search led her to the Grief & Loss Center, but more importantly, to the “Young Adult Group for 35 and Under,” a niche group of young individuals (aka the proudly self-proclaimed “get-its”) who have experienced specific losses of loved ones, including a sibling. I remember the first time I introduced myself via Zoom and shared that I had lost my brother Ben at the age of 31. For the first time, I saw faces looking back at me whose eyes alone showed me that they truly felt how I was feeling. I optimistically attended the monthly Zoom calls, and as I began to open up, share my story, and express how the aftermath of Ben’s accident was truly affecting my day-to-day life, my life started to improve.
In the group, I was able to express my thoughts openly, which were so extreme and often way too intense and inappropriate for any ordinary person or conversation. I honestly verbalized all my feelings, ranging from severe guilt, bitter anger, emotional exhaustion, and frankly, being absolutely freaking heartbroken. Instead of continuing to bask in my grief, I was diving into and feeling every single emotion that was coming to the surface, but now I had a safe landing place to process them with the support of Laurie and my group. Whether I was laughing, rambling, or bawling my eyes out, they all individually chose to sit with me in silence in my depths of hell, sharing my tears, applauding my accomplishments, accepting my boundaries, and supporting the new normal that I was rebuilding with my safe foundation.
They don’t tell you this, but sometimes you really do lose yourself upon another person's death. Part of me died along with my brother on November 17th, 2021. I will never have that person back, and now I can proudly say that nor would I want to. It has taken me almost 5 years of deep self-reflection and work, all of which was backed by Laurie and my “gets.” Ben’s death has taught me forgiveness and self-love, forced me to start giving myself and others grace, and molded the “new me” from the best version of the “old Anj” and all my favorite, most loved versions of my brother, Ben.
“But I got to stop wishing; I got to go fishing down to rock bottom again. With just a few friends, just a few friends.”