2 Sleepless Nights and the Comic Books That Did Me In
I was about eleven the first time I really understood what that felt like. And it started with a stack of Superman comics and the kind of love that lives on even after someone’s gone.
My brother Billie died in a car accident when he was sixteen. He was ten years older than me and bigger than life. He was the kind of brother you admired just by watching him breathe. After he passed, his room stayed mostly how he left it. We didn’t treat it like a shrine or anything—we just couldn’t bring ourselves to pack it away. Sometimes I’d go in just to sit on his bed. Quietly. Just to feel close.
But one night, I got it in my head to do something I knew I wasn’t supposed to: I opened the drawer where he kept his comics—his Superman collection. Billie loved those stories. Some of them were worn from how often he read them. And even though I knew better, I took the whole stack to my room.
I read them under the covers with a flashlight. Every page felt like a secret window into who he was. I meant to put them back before anyone noticed. But I fell asleep. And when I woke up, the smell of pancakes meant it was too late.
I couldn’t return them. The house was already moving. I just knew that at any second, the hammer was gonna drop. Every word at breakfast made me sweat. Every glance from my mama made my stomach twist.
But nothing happened.The whole day passed and no one said a thing. Not at lunch. Not at dinner.
That night, after the house went quiet, I crept back into Billie’s room and slid the comics back into the drawer, right where they’d been. Still couldn’t sleep. The guilt gnawed at me. The what-ifs spun around like gnats. The next morning, I broke. I told my parents what I’d done, voice shaking and cheeks burning. And you know what my daddy said?
“Son, we knew you took them. I noticed when I went in to visit Billie’s room. I still go in there. I still look through those comics. Makes me feel close to him.” And Mama said,“We were giving you the space to come clean.” Turns out, they weren’t waiting to punish me. They were waiting for me to do the hard thing. And I had. Because the weight of guilt was just too much. Sweating it out is no way to live.
The relief of owning what you’ve done.
That day taught me something I’ve never forgotten: it’s not the mistake that gets you—it’s the hiding. When you carry guilt, it shows. In your body, your breath, your eyes. You sweat and squirm and flinch at shadows. But the moment you tell the truth? You cool off.
Turns out, there’s a reason for that. [This article on why coming clean feels so good] explains how confession eases guilt and anxiety, even when the stakes feel high. So if you’re walking around with something stuck to your heart, waiting for the other shoe to drop, maybe it’s time to let it go. Say what needs saying.
—Archie (Chief Philosopher)
P.S. And if you ever need a reminder of what guilt feels like—or why it’s better to speak your peace—well, I just so happen to know a t-shirt that’ll do the trick.
https://notquiterightgoods.com
