Story Therapy

I had thought 1982 was a year I would never forget. 

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My older brother had been in hospital for 6 months after the most awful accident - he had been run over by a truck - when my father was assassinated. At our home. At point blank range.
He was a public figure so the international investigation agencies had all descended on us and my mother and I were placed under house arrest - they were not sure if we were the perpetrators or the next targets.
My mother and I had both been at office when we got the news and by the time we got back his body had been taken away and I never got to see him again, not to say good bye, not to attend his funeral, nothing. 
We weren't allowed to go visit my brother either, who was lying in hospital with an amputated leg, a broken neck, a fragmented skull and crushed ribs. He had to deal with this all by himself. 
How do you get past something like this? I didn’t think I ever could. 
It was at this point that a friend had said to me “you have to look at life as a collection of lots of tiny tiny little stories because that way you can change one little ending at a time.”

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I had thought I would never forget the summer of 1982 but....