I Didn't Really Mean It

“I didn’t really mean it.”

Those words have left my mouth countless times—to parents, lovers, bosses, family, and friends. Sometimes they were mumbled, other times spoken clearly, and often screamed. Sometimes they were part of an apology, sometimes a lie to avoid trouble or conflict. I've used them out of regret, fear, or as a way to explain my behavior.

You know that was just me joking, right?

I thought I was mumbling under my breath; I didn’t think you could hear me criticize your management skills or call you names as I walked away.

I’m sorry for the things I said that caused you pain. I was mad and hurt and wanted to hurt you back.

Stop crying. I’m sorry I told you I would throw away all your toys if you didn’t clean your room. Mommy didn’t really mean it.

I’ve thrown those words around carelessly my whole life, and I could list trivial examples indefinitely. At times, though, those same words come from the deepest region of my soul.

Jason was everything a big brother is supposed to be. He was as patient as a teenage boy can ever be. He was endlessly annoyed by my presence and fiercely protective. From my birth through my preschool years, Jason would proudly introduce me to anyone and everyone as “his baby.” He seemed to have liked me much more before I learned to talk.

Looking back, when I was around nine and Jason was about fifteen, my parents rarely forced him to babysit me. Typically, as soon as they left, we would get into screaming matches. That was entirely my fault. I don’t remember the specific reasons, but I do recall purposely starting arguments with him. I suppose I thought it was exciting at the time. I was a particularly difficult child.

A week prior, Jason told me I could curse around him if I kept quiet about his cigarettes. We traded silence: my swearing for his secret.

On one particular day, we weren’t fighting. We were actually getting along while my parents shopped. We started with a water fight in the kitchen and ended up wrestling on the living room floor. Jason pinned me in seconds; he was laughing. Through my own giggles, I looked up and said, “Ugh. Fucking asshole.”

I felt like such hot shit right then, using curse words in the correct context.

His face registered absolute hurt—just for a second, barely a flash—before he started laughing again. That was over thirty years ago, and to this day, that look still haunts me.

“I didn’t really mean it, Jason. We were playing. I’m sorry.” That one came from the soul, and it left a scar. I never called him a name again, even in jest.

Growing up, I said many things I didn’t mean—and a few that I did. When Jason teased my 6th-grade boyfriend, I claimed he was ruining my life. At twelve, I meant it.

I told him he was my brother, not my father, and to stay out of my business. I meant every word at sixteen. Now, I realize Jason was almost like a third parent. Being his sister is as core to me as being Steve’s kid or Chris’s daughter.

There were likely hundreds of times I said those words. I was rebellious with nothing to rebel against—full of angst, misdirected anger, and boredom. Sometimes I was outright cruel in the way only teenage girls can be. I hardly ever meant it.

The six-year gap between us meant we had little in common as children. Though we loved each other, we weren’t close. Before my first daughter was born, our relationship was loving, if a bit obligatory. We saw each other only at our parents’ house for holidays or birthdays. We rarely spoke on the phone or texted for no particular reason. The day Jason came up to the hospital to meet his first niece, the distance between us began to dissolve, replaced by a deep, unspoken bond—a silent promise of unwavering love and support. Even though he didn’t always like me, he never once failed to love me. My brother’s love has shaped who I am.

There were over twenty-five people at my parents’ house the night that Jason died. That’s the kind of man my brother grew up to be. People came and called from across the country to say goodbye, to wish him an easy rest, and to make sure he did not die alone.

Hospice had withdrawn his oxygen by sundown. His friends were gathered throughout the house. My mother held his hand. I stood at the head of his bed, my face pressed to his.

The last words Jason said were, “I’m sorry, guys. I’m just so tired.” It was two days before he died. He fell asleep shortly afterward and would never regain consciousness. I wanted him to know that it was okay to rest now, that he didn’t have to be sorry for leaving us.

I whispered in his ear. “It’s okay to let go. You’ve been so strong, and we love you so much. I’ll make sure Mom and Dad are okay. You can rest now.”

Ten minutes later, he exhaled for the final time, and I whispered again, “It’s okay. I love you, Jason. Goodbye.” We stayed there—my mother and father holding his hands, and me with my lips against his forehead—for an eternity that lasted only seconds. We stayed until his body had cooled and the funeral home men came to take him away.

The next few hours are a blur—tears, laughter, and shared memories with friends who came to say goodbye. There was peace in his release from pain, and gratitude that, while he had stage IV cancer for four years, he’d only been truly ill these last months.

The moon was high and unusually bright when I left my parents’ house that night. It caught my eye as I started my car, and in that moment, something inside me broke. Unsteady, I sat in the car for nearly an hour, cycling from disbelief to denial, muttering 'no' and 'stop' over and over, as if I could undo it all with words. I don’t know if I was talking to my brother, to God, to the moon, or to myself.

There are no names for the emotions that hit me as I stared at the moon. There was sorrow and loss, pain and an emptiness no words can do justice to. There was confusion and fear. The worst had already happened, yet I found myself paralyzed by an overwhelming sense of impending doom.

Realizing I’d never be anyone’s sister again left me uneasy. I’d always been Jason’s sister. I didn’t know who I was without that identity. The thought felt selfish and unsettling. Grief is strange.

My next thought gutted me: the last thing I told my brother was a lie. I said he could go, that he could rest, and that we would be okay...

I was not ready to say goodbye. I’m still not ready. I’m okay, but I’ll never be whole without him. If I’m honest, I have to admit—shamefully—that I’d return his pain for just one more day with him. The truth is, I wish his spirit wasn’t resting easily after all; I wish he were here, haunting me.

This is one of those times the words come from my soul. Only this time, they haven’t left a scar. This wound is still raw and bleeding.

I’m so sorry, Jason.

Please don’t go.

I know what I said before, but I really didn’t mean it.