Family Portrait Blurred…

Well it’s brother-related World War III again on the home front. God, I’m getting so tired of saying-er -writing that. I really am. I don’t get it. I mean, if he despises us all so much, then there’s the door. Get the hell out. It’s not as if any of would stop him. Ugh. I swear, sometimes I really can’t believe that we’re related, let alone that we’re brother and sister. I just can’t understand why or how, for that matter, he got to be the person and the way he is, I really can’t. I mean, we all grew up in the same house and we’re raised the same way…but my sister and I aren’t like him. At all.

I don’t know when or how he got to be so cruel. I mean, he wasn’t always like this. He wasn’t always this much of a jerk. He used to be nice. When we were little–believe it or not–we were all really close. We played together, took off on adventures for hours together…we had fun. Hell, there were even times when I actually looked up to him. Yes, I was one of those annoying little sisters…the kind that would follow him and his friends around, wanting to do all the cool things that he’d done. With our dad out of the picture, he’s the one who taught me how to ride a bike and how to drive a go-cart, as well as how to build an awesome fort in the woods behind our house. There was a time when he looked out for me–his little baby sister–and had my back, no matter what. I don’t really know when exactly that all changed, or what caused it. All I know is that somewhere along the way, something happened…something that made him stop being my brother, turning him instead into someone that I don’t even recognize or know anymore.

Maybe it was peer pressure and hanging around the wrong type of crowd. Maybe it had to do with not having a father/male figure around. Or maybe it’s even simpler than that–and maybe it really was just the alcohol and drugs that changed him and nothing else. I don’t know. All I know is that he changed and was no longer the brother I once knew. I dont’ look up to him anymore…and haven’t for a really long time now. He definitely hasn’t given me a reason to, especially lately. I despise him and yes, part of me even hates him. However, for the most part, I just pity and feel sorry for him. I really do.

I don’t get him. I don’t understand how he can do what he’s done and be the way that he is when he has three kids who think the world of him and look up to him. I don’t understand how he can be so selfish and so unappreciative of what he’s been given and has. I don’t understand how he could just not care. I mean, he of all people should know that what he’s doing is wrong. He knows what it’s like to not have a father in his life. That said, you’d think he’d do anything to not let history repeat itself…to put his own kids through that. You would think. Also, you would think he’d grown the hell up by now…but he hasn’t. He wants everything handed to him…without having to work or earn anything. But it doesn’t work like that. But of course, good luck in telling him that. He doesn’t care about anyone other than himself. He never has and if my instincts are right, he never will.

According to him tonight, I’m a good-for-nothing whore. Actually, he said we all were, but yeah. I really wish he’d come up with some new material to insult me with because this whole “whore” bit is getting old. Seriously. As I’ve said before though, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t care what he thinks or says because I know the truth of what I am and I’m not a whore. I’m not even close. I don’t sleep around like he accuses me of doing. The best part of his little tantrums is when he brings up the other one from a few years ago. I’m not sure where the hell he gets his facts from, but he might want to find himself a more reliable source of information. I’m accused to have supposedly slept with everyone from that particular bar…patrons and staff alike. I’m not too selective, I guess. Hmm…interesting to know. Is it true? Of course it isn’t. But if that’s the trash he wants to spew around to make himself feel better, then all the more power to him, I say. He, like some of my other family members, loves to harp on the situation with the other one…He thinks it bothers me when he throws it in my face that I was hooking with some married guy who just used me for sex like some cheap slut. Again with his inaccurate facts! For starters, he wasn’t married when I was involved with him. Secondly, I’m well aware that I was being used and what I was being used FOR.It’s not like I’m just finding that information out or anything. It’s old news, brother-dearest. After all this time, who the hell cares? I don’t. I’m sooo past that, it’s not even funny. I hate to burst his little bubble, but I moved on. It doesn’t bother me. Hell, it really doesn’t even hurt anymore…so his insults and accusations are worthless. Sucks for him, I guess. Boo hoo, big brother. Guess you’ll have to find something else to hold over my head.

I know it’s a horrible thing to say as he is my brother after all, but sometimes…sometimes I just wish they’d lock him up and throw away the key, you know? I just can’t take it anymore..none of us can. All the fighting and the yelling. All the verbal abuse and the name-calling and the threats. Or any of it. . It’s just too much and has gone on for too damn long. It needs to stop. We shouldn’t have to deal with or take his crap, simply because he wants to be childish and has to throw a tantrum if he doesn’t get whatever he wants, WHEN he wants it. It’s not fair, especially when we’ve never done a damn thing to him. We don’t deserve to be treated the way he does. We just don’t. And we shouldn’t have to. The kids shouldn’t have to either. Especially the kids. They shouldn’t have to hear the fighting or the despicable things he says. They shouldn’t have to be stuck in this World War III hell-hole, but they are. They may not have a choice, but us adults do. For the kids’ sake, we need to do something about it–before they grow up to be as “dark and twisted” as the rest of us. Either way, thus stops here. It’s done. In the end, it’s his grave he’s digging. Not ours.



Everything You’ll Never Know…



STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …Every two minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted. It is estimated that 1 in 6 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. Victims of sexual assault are 6 times more likely to develop an eating disorder and 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide…

–*– This is for the girl that couldn’t tell a soul. The girl that hides the secret horrors of a night so long ago. The girl who lay there and never said a word, there in the wet grass that caught her tears. Who watched the stars in that damp, dark night sky, as she begged God for mercy–begged him to please, just let her die. Who drifted away to someplace else, somewhere safe in her mind. This is for the silent tears that she cried. This is for the girl who did what she had to, just in order to survive. The girl who didn’t have a choice, who wasn’t strong enough to fight…who lost her voice that night. The girl to whom fate was so cruel to–though she never could quite figure out why. Why her? Why that night? Why did time have to stand still as he tore apart her world? This is for the girl that kept it all inside, afraid to feel pain, unable to feel anything. This is for the girl who learned how to lie and deceive so expertly…She was only sixteen.

STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …There are approximately 8 million people in the U.S, who have an eating disorder, 20 percent of whom will die from complications associated with their disorder…

–*– This is for the girl that can’t breathe–whose shame of that night has become suffocating. This is for the girl that was scared and confused and didn’t know what to do. Who wasn’t prepared…who never knew a person could be so cruel. For the girl that ran away and cried. Who learned how to hide the pain inside, but not how to cope. The girl that found solace from putting her fingers down her throat… This is to the ones that don’t understand, who stand on the sidelines and judge what they don’t know. Those who don’t know what it’s like to have your body slowly destroy itself, from the inside out. This is to the ones who don’t have to hide the scars on their knuckles or feel sick and tired all the time…who never intended for it to be that bad or to go that far. To the ones who will never understand how it feels to look in the mirror and sees a stranger’s reflection staring back. To those who assume it’s about weight, when really, it’s not—rather it’s about reclaiming control…all the things that he stole. It’s about looking in and watching out–escaping to a safer place—away from the self-loathing and self-hate. This is to the ones who haven’t awoken to find themselves on a cold tiled floor, not knowing how long they’ve laid there unconscious for. To those who don’t have to carry the burden of shame, convinced that they themselves are to blame…

STATISTICALLY SPEAKING: …Every 18 minutes in the US, someone commits suicide, and every 43 seconds, someone attempts one…

–*– This is for the girl that found another way to cope with the shame. Who makes herself bleed just to forget the pain…to feel something…anything. This is for the girl they call crazy. Who “cuts” just to feel better. Not deep enough to sever the artery or a vein, but enough to bleed…enough to feel the pain. This is to those who think it’s so easy. Who say she can stop at any time, if that’s what she wants. If only it were that simple, but it’s not. This is to those who say she’s “doing it for attention”—that it’s all just a game. It’s not a cry for attention. It’s not a game. It’s about coping with shame and escaping the kind of pain that never really goes away, no matter what the experts say. She has no ulterior motive…nothing from this that she stands to gain. She does it because she feels she has to. She does it to survive. She does it to feel clean again, the way she was before that night. She does it to take back some of the control he stole. To not feel as weak as she knows she is. To keep what little is left of her sanity… This is for her–and all the others just like her–going through the same living hell as she–day in and day out. Who’ve been given no reprieve and no help. Girls like her that are just looking for an easier way out. A break from the cruel hand of fate and misfortune that they’ve been dealt… This is to the ones who think they have the right. Who think it’s okay to call her all those cruel names. She’s a whore. She’s a cutter. She’s crazy. Unstable. Watch her pretend to eat as she sits down at the table. Go ahead society. Give her a label. God forbid you lift a finger or do anything to try and save her… This is for that girl…and the many more just like her. This is for me. I am SHE. She is me. The brokenness, these scars—sadly, they are mine, all mine…




I’ve seen this girl named Mia.

She’s pretty, thin, and tall.

She has the smallest frame I’ve ever seen.

And not one single flaw.

I met this girl named Mia.

She introduced herself today.

She seems so very nice and kind.

She says she wants to stay.

I know this girl named Mia.

She’s so perfect, and it’s true.

She says she’ll make me skinny, too.

I’m friends with this girl named Mia.

I want her to always stay.

All my other friends have left.

But she will never stray.

The only one I listen to is Mia.

She’s so smart and full of advice.

I’m starting to get smaller.

My health being my last sacrifice.

I’m scared of this girl named Mia.

I can’t get her out of my head.

It’s finally occurred to me.

She won’t be satisfied until I’m dead.

I hate this girl named Mia.

She makes my life a living hell.

Someone please, hear my silent screams.

She won’t let me tell anyone anything.

My worst enemy is this girl named Mia.

She’s a demon in my head.

She seemed so very nice at first.

But I was so mislead.

I’m prisoner to this girl named Mia.

I’m captive to her will.

I have to do exactly what she says.

It’s the only way to ever make this end.

My murderer is this girl named Mia.

She starved me to my grave.

My heart finally stopped beating.

I couldn’t continue being brave.

But it’s okay. I’ll be okay.

I’m in a better place.

Mia–she is gone.

And now I’m finally safe.


I Go Back…

Dear Ty…this song always makes me think of you. I’m sorry for that night, and all the ones leading up to it. I’m sorry I couldn’t be “the one” for you…that I was too broken to let you in. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry…for everything.

Always Mine & Never Yours, Messie.

ARTIST: Taylor Swift
TRACK: “Back To December”

I’m so glad you made time to see me.
How’s life?
Tell me, how’s your family?
I haven’t seen them in a while.
You’ve been good. Busier than ever.
We small talk, work and the weather.
Your guard is up and I know why.
‘Cause the last time you saw me,
is still burned in the back of your mind.
You gave me roses and I left them there to die…

So this is me swallowing my pride.
Standing in front of you,
saying I’m sorry for that night.
And I go back to December all the time.
It turns out freedom ain’t nothing but missing you.
Wishing I’d realized what I had when you were mine.
I go back to December, turn around, and make it all right.
I go back to December all the time…

These days, I haven’t been sleeping.
Staying up, playing back myself leaving.
When your birthday passed,
and I didn’t call.
And I think about Summer.
All the beautiful times.
I watched you laughing from the passenger side.
And realized I loved you in the fall.

And then the cold came.
The dark days when fear crept into my mind.
You gave me all your love.
And all I gave you was goodbye.

So this is me swallowing my pride.
Standing in front of you.
Saying I’m sorry for that night.
And I go back to December all the time.
It turns out freedom ain’t nothing but missing you.
Wishing I’d realized what I had when you were mine.
I go back to December, turn around, and change my own mind.
I go back to December all the time.

I miss your tan skin.
Your sweet smile.
So good to me.
So right.
And how you held me in your arms that September night.
The first time you ever saw me cry.
Maybe this is wishful thinking.
Probably mindless dreaming.
If we loved again, I swear I’d love you right.
I’d go back in time and change it, but I can’t.
So if the chain is on your door,
I’ll understand.

But this is me swallowing my pride.
Standing in front of you, saying I’m sorry for that night.
And I go back to December,
turn around and make it all right.
Yeah, I go back to December.

I’ve been bit by the melancholy bug I think. I’ve been missing him lately. I keep thinking about it and going back to that night…wondering if what I did was truly for the best and if I made the right decision. I was so certain at the time, but now I’m not so sure. I can’t help but feel like it was a mistake–my walking away from him. I just feel so lost…like there’s something missing and that something is him.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be free of this. Free from the other one and from all the damage and the hurt that he inflicted upon me. I wonder if it will always be this way…and if I’ll ever trust in and love again. My greatest fear is that I won’t. I’m scared that I’ll never be able to repair the damage…that I’m always going to be this broken. I just want to be happy again. I want to feel something again…anything. I hate feeling this numb all the time. More than anything though, I just want to feel alive again…not just going through the motions like I have been. I hate feeling this jaded and cynical about love and relationships. I hate feeling so helpless and just waiting around for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. For the bottom to fall through and out. I hate feeling like this…like it’s over before anything even started. I hate what I did and how much I hurt him. I never wanted to hurt him, or anyone for that matter. But I did.

God, I’m such a mess. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself…hindering my own happiness. I really am my own worst enemy…and I hate that, so much. I hate that I couldn’t give him what he wanted…what he deserved. I hate that I wasn’t ready for anything more…and moreover, that I may never be. It’s so damn unfair. I didn’t ask for it to be this way. I didn’t ask to be used and hurt. I didn’t ask to be this broken, or have my life turned upside-down simply because I was young and foolish and too naive to really know better.

I made one mistake. Just one. But do I really deserve to have to pay for that one mistake for the rest of my life? I’m only 25. I shouldn’t have all these regrets and what-ifs, but I do. I shouldn’t have to be this scared or feel this lost and confused. I wish I could make sense of all of this, but I can’t. I wish I could go back and see exactly where it all went wrong. I don’t know what happened or how I could even let it get that far or that bad. I was such an idiot. Such a fool. I’m supposed to be smarter than that. Hell, I know I’m smarter than that. I just don’t get it. I mean, I was smart enough to get myself a full ride into the Ivy Leagues…and yet I wasn’t smart enough to even see it coming. And I should have seen it coming. Hell, there were so many signs and warnings and somehow I managed to ignore them all.

I should have known better than to trust in and let myself be led astray by a pair of twinkling green eyes and such pretty little lines. I should have known that a man like that would bring me nothing but hurt and pain. I should have known better.,,and known that men like that are all alike, They don’t change…they aren’t even capable of it. Hell, I’ve seen it happen time and time again with my mother my whole life. I’ve seen her be swayed by sweet smiles and pretty words and a man’s charm. I’ve seen her fall for it, each and every time, and it inevitably gets her nowhere–EVERY TIME. People have this saying…”that you are what you’ve learned…what you’ve seen” and maybe they’re right. After all, I am my mother’s daughter. And as much as it sickens me to say it, maybe I am just like her. As we all now, children learn by their parents’ example. Obviously, my mother’s example wasn’t exactly the greatest. While I know that I’m an adult and therefore I’m responsible for my own actions–in part, I blame my mother for why I’m so naive and foolish when it comes to the opposite sex. All I’ve ever known was what she showed me. Maybe it’s wrong, but a part of me can’t help but resent her for that. I wish my mother was different. I wish that she had put us kids first while we were growing up, rather than some guy that promised her the world who never actually followed through with that promise. I wish that she’d been around more. That she’d loved us more. More than anything though, I wish that we’d been enough for her. But we never were. I’ve long since given up trying to understand how and why she is the way that she is. She just is…and still is, for that matter.

If you ask me, I think FATE has a pretty sick and twisted sense of humor…throwing all these irony-filled curve balls at us. Like how growing up, I spent years watching her get screwed over by some guy, over and over again. And each time that would happen, we would have to watch her fall apart all over again. I’ve never understood how or why she keeps letting it happen–why she would put herself through that hell, just for some stupid man. But she does. To tell you the truth, I think she does it simply because she’s desperate for love. And I think it’s that desperation that has clouded her judgement to the point where she’s let it consume her. It may sound strange, but I don’t think she even knows how to be alone. I don’t think she even wants to try. Maybe she has Daddy issues or she’s too used to it by now…I don’t know. All I know is that for some reason, she seems to think she needs a man in her life in order for her to be happy, Honestly, I don’t think she even realizes how seriously twisted that is. And it really is. The irony in it all is that I spent all that time and those years resenting her for being how she is–and promising myself that I would never allow myself to become her…when that’s exactly what I’ve done. There’s the irony for ya.

Then again, I guess I should instead say that I used to be that way–that I used to be like her. But I’m not anymore. I did what she never and will never had the nerve to do–I walked away. Granted, it may have taken me awhile, but I did it. It hurt like hell, but I had to do it. It was the only way I could think of to save myself from losing everything. Of losing myself. and everything that makes me…ME. Unlike her, I didn’t fall apart. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to go back for more, like she always does. I actually learned my lesson–albeit the hard away–thank you very much. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’ve learned that I deserve more. I know better. She, on the other hand, has not. I doubt she ever will, especially seeing how she hasn’t by now.

Unlike my mother, I’m trying. I’m trying to fix my broken parts. I’m trying to be able to trust again. To let people in. I’m trying to believe in love again. To see the glass half full. I’m trying to forgive myself for hurting a really sweet guy…to forgive myself for my mistakes. I’m trying. I’m trying really hard. I am. Which is more than she can say for herself. She’s my mother, but I’m not her. And I don’t want to be. At all. I’m healing and slowly getting back parts of myself that were taken from me and that I lost. It just takes time.


A Pity-Party Just For You…







And it’s World War III here again, in this “not-so-loving/lovely” abode that is my home (though thankfully not for much longer). I know that I’ve sometimes jokingly talked about in previous posts—all the dysfunction—but honestly, it’s no laughing matter. Truth be told, it’s an atrocity. We’re flesh and blood…and yet, we despise one another. It’s unreal. Actually, sad it what it is.

I was upstairs earlier when my brother went off on another one of his—what I call—“rage tirades”, hearing him from all the way upstairs. Normally, I’d pay it no mind and just turn up the volume on my iPod to drown out the yelling. However, the girls were asleep and I had just put Avie down for the night and so I therein didn’t relish having them woken up—especially with his childish bullshit. And so I went downstairs to see what the ruckus was this time and found my mother and him going at it big-time. Though it’s no new event for those two, it was neither the time nor place. Honestly, I have no idea what set him off this time…but again, that’s nothing new. Hell, 99 percent of the time he doesn’t even need a reason. I walked into the part of the argument where he was berating my mother by playing his so very typical (and totally overused) “shitty mother” card. Basically what he does is call her a bad mother and accuses her of never being there for us kids. From there, he goes on to stomp on her emotional and mental state—calling her crazy for the fact that she’s been struggling with bouts of depression in recent years. He just loves throwing it in her face how she tried to kill herself a couple of years ago. It’s a low blow…but for some reason, he gets off on hitting people where it hurts most and pointing out a person’s weakest points. I know he’s my brother, but he’s an ass. As if reminding her of that weak moment isn’t bad enough, he also likes to go one cruel step further by telling her she should try to go and do it again—to kill herself.

That’s what he was doing when I went down earlier. I guess I just snapped. I couldn’t help it…he can be such a cruel bastard sometimes. Granted, my mother wasn’t 100 percent there while we were growing up, like she probably should have been, but still. That tactic is getting old. Actually, it already is. So, she wasn’t always there. So, she was never Mother of the Year material. So, her priorities were seriously screwed up. So what? I mean, it’s over and done with. It is what it is. Was what she did right? No, it wasn’t. But that’s not our loss…it’s hers. She has to live with what she’s done and what she should have done. That’s her guilt. Her shame. It’s her regret, not ours. I may never understand her or why she is the way that she is—but unlike my jerk brother—I fail to see the need to continue harping on it. Or continue to punish her for it—after all these years. The way I see it, her regret of not being there is punishment enough…for she’s going to have to live with it the rest of her life.

What pisses me off is how he tries to make out like every bad thing in his life or that’s happened to him is her fault for being an absent-parent when we were kids. That, to me, is total bullshit. He’s 29-year-old…and damn well old enough to be taking responsibility for his own actions…something that he refuses to do. It’s pathetic really. He’s a grown man who thinks he can do and say whatever the hell he wants…but that’s not the way the world works. He doesn’t have a job. Heck, he can’t even hold a job for more than a couple of months at a time anyhow. He’s an alcoholic and a druggie who thinks everyone else should support his habit. He’s always demanding money from people. He’ll either verbally lash out at you until you eventually just give it to him just to shut him up and get rid of him. And if you don’t, he’ll either steal it or pawn something of yours…ie. My skis, poles, and THE most amazing ski boots ever to be made that altogether totaled over a grand…which he pawned several years ago for a measly couple hundred bucks. Which I’m still super-pissed about, by the way. I especially loved those ski boots—which took me 5 different stores and months to find, I might add. It’s been all sorts of things over the years though. DVD’s, computers, jewelry…the list is endless. Hell, just a couple of weeks ago we discovered that he’s been taking my grandmother’s debit card and taking money out of her accounts—we’re talking hundreds of dollars. It’s messed up. He doesn’t even bother to deny it anymore when you confront him about it. He just shrugs it off like he doesn’t care. And he doesn’t. That’s the rub of it. He doesn’t care. At all. The only person—if any—that he cares about is himself. It’s ironic really how he berates both our parents for being crappy parents…when he’s no better. He’s got three kids with two different baby mama’s and pays zero child support for either of them. As such, he has no place whatsoever when it comes to passing out judgment of parenting skills. “POT: What’s that kettle? You’re black, too? You don’t say…” 🙂

Despite all that everyone has done for him…he still treats everyone like crap. My mother especially. He claims she does nothing for him and yet, who was the one that rushed down at 3am to the police station a couple months back when he’d gotten arrested and roughed up by some cops, demanding to see him and that he be taken to the ER for his injuries? She did, that’s who. She’s the one who came to me for the $2500 cash to post his bail and get him out. She’s the one that’s gone with him to all his court dates for the matter and paid the fine when it was settled. Maybe it’s a horrible thing to say, but I wish I’d never given her the money and that his ass had stayed there in jail. Not so that he’d learn his lesson because let’s face it, that never happens. After all, he’s been in and out of jail so many times in the past 15 years or so that I’ve since lost track and each time, he hasn’t learned a damn thing. He’ll go in and get out and stay out of trouble for a month or two—swearing he’s changed and that it’ll be different from then on—then he’s right back at it with his old habits. No, I think he should have stayed there because any reprieve—even a short lived one—of not having to listen to his mouth is better than nothing. The incident earlier is proof of that.

Him playing the whole “woe is me” pity card is one thing. Him telling her to go kill herself is another thing altogether. It’s wrong. And so messed up that it’s not even funny. It’s just plain cruel, especially considering the emotional state she’s in right now. Technically her emotions have been up and down since my grandfather died, so about 14 years now. He was her Dad and they were really close, so naturally, she took it pretty hard…hardest than most, you might even say. She’s definitely got some “daddy issues”…which no doubt partly explains her tumultuous track record nee love life. It doesn’t help that most of the men in her life have turned out to be jerks either, which they have. This last relationship of hers though really did a number on her. It screwed her up pretty bad. She got really depressed and well, one thing led to another, and she tried killing herself with a pill “cocktail” consisting of sleeping pills and anti-depressants. She ended up in the psych ward for a few days, which I can attest from personal experience…isn’t a fun experience. I remember after they first brought her to the ward and she got settled in—how scared she looked and how she cried when I went to leave. It was like déjà vu…and not in a good way. I knew how terrified and lonely she felt in that moment because that’s exactly how I felt after my stupid attempt when my sister had to leave and I was stuck there.

Maybe that’s why it bothers me so much when he says it to her. Because I’ve been there. Because I know what it’s like to completely give up. I know what it’s like to feel like the world has turned its back on you…to feel like life isn’t worth living. I know what it’s like to feel that depth of desperation. To let the voices win and take over. I know what it’s like to be so consumed by pain so raw that it eats you up inside and breaks your soul. I know how it feels. I’ve been there. And it’s nothing to joke about. It sure as hell isn’t something you throw at someone simply because you’re pissed and don’t get what you want, that’s for damn sure. You don’t say shit like that to anyone, let alone your own mother. I mean, my mother may not be perfect and we’ve had our own little rows from time to time, but still…she’s my mother. And she’s his mother. He doesn’t have to like what she’s done or forgive her, but he can damn well show her some respect—especially after everything she’s done for him. After all that EVERYONE has done for him.

God, he’s so predictable though. As expected, the moment I came to my mother’s defense, he lashed out at me. Unlike my mother, it doesn’t bother me. It really doesn’t. I’m not going to shrink and go hide in a corner and cry when he brings up my suicide attempt years ago…or when he tells ME to go kill myself. It doesn’t bother me like he thinks it’s going to because I’m over it. I came to terms with what I did. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed or secretive about it either. I was young and drunk and reckless. I did a really stupid thing. It was wrong and I know it. I learned my lesson…which is more than he can say for anything he’s done in his life. Maybe it should bother me—but it doesn’t. Not anymore.

There was a time when it did bother me…his words and all the verbal abuse. There was one time in particular that I recall when I really let him get to me. I was about 17 at the time. He was in rare form for some reason or another one night and decided to hit me where it hurt most. And he succeeded. He stole my journal, read it, and discovered my dirty little secret…the rape. He took the one safe outlet I’d had to try and make sense out of and come to terms with the horror of that night, and he twisted it to his advantage to use against me…which is what he did that night. I can still remember that cruel look on his face when he made a remark in front of everyone about how I wasn’t as perfect as everyone thought…or as innocent. How I was a whore and that maybe they should ask me about the little Halloween party I’d gone to without their knowledge. I remember standing there feeling like the bottom had just fallen out completely. How everyone turned to look at me, waiting for an answer. I remember feeling like I couldn’t breathe…like the walls were closing in on me. I remember him just standing there, this sick and smug satisfaction on his face and hating him so much in that moment. I was shocked, unable to believe that he, my own brother, would say something like that. Or worse, that he could take the worst thing to ever happen to me, the worst night of my life—and use it in a way to make me look like a whore…to insinuate that I was a willing participant. It was unfathomable. An absolutely unforgivable to do. For him to have read all those dirtiest details of the hell that I went through and then say that…it was unconscionable. To this day, I’ve never forgiven her for that. I don’t think it’s something that CAN be forgiven. It just isn’t. I still remember him laughing as I ran upstairs crying to the bathroom where I was so physically sick that I literally threw up.

Nevertheless, no one paid much mind to him about it. I think they figured it was probably just more of his stupid ranting and lies and that I was just merely upset that he’d read my journal in general. Granted, I was lucky that no one caught onto it…but that’s wasn’t really much of a consolation…not really. After that, I swore to myself that I’d never let him get to me like that ever again—that I’d never let him pierce that vulnerability. At some point, I just stopped caring and simply just accepted that while he may be my brother, he is and always will be a cruel, self-serving bastard. I haven’t let his words bother me since. To be honest, I actually find it kind of funny. Satisfying even—in that for all he says—just makes him out to be more pathetic than he already is. He can say what he wants, can call me crazy and suicidal and a whore—but even on his best day, I’m ten times the better person than he will ever be.

So big brother, here’s to you….the world’s smallest violin, playing a symphony…just for YOU.



Flying Solo…

Well, it’s official. Looks like I’m going to be making this move solo after all. Yep. After weeks of her avoiding my just yes/no question, I finally managed to get an answer last weekend. I practically had to drag it out of her though. Granted, I pretty much already knew what her answer was going to be, but still. It didn’t make it any easier to actually hear her say it. I played it off cool though—like it didn’t matter and I was okay with it—then bawled like a baby on the drive home. Yeah.

I’m sad about it. Naturally. It hurts. I’m trying to be understanding about it, I really am….but it still hurts. I get it. She’s had a little of a setback recently, financially-speaking so naturally she’s going to need some time to get things back on track. I get that. And there’s the boyfriend situation, too. They’ve gotten pretty serious really fast—which of course makes it a little complicated in that regard. They seem really great together. I finally had the chance to meet up and he really does seem like a nice guy. He’s nothing like any of her other boyfriends. You can actually have a conversation with him without wanting to punch him in the face J. And he’s really sweet with her. He seems to genuinely adore her. He’s always getting her “just because” flowers and random gifts, which is so sweet.

She just seems so happy. And I’m really and truly glad for her, I am. Which is why I feel horrible about being upset about this and with her. I want her to be happy, I do. I just hate that it has to be this way in order for that, you know? I’m not mad at her for it or anything. I’m not really sure what the best word to describe it is…disappointed I guess you could call it. I just feel a little let down, that’s all—by her not going now and plans being changed…by a lot of things, really. I just really wanted this to happen, for us to go down like we planned. And now that that’s not going to happen…I just feel really uncertain. And scared. I feel like I’m not sure what I should do now. I mean, I don’t want to go…but at the same time, I do. I have to go. Hell, I NEED to go. I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t BE here. I’m at the breaking point with my family. I just can’t take it anymore…all the fighting with one another and getting bitched at. It’s like walking on eggshells with them–like nothing I do is ever right or enough for them or is ever going to be, you know? I just can’t keep doing this with them…having just really good days or just really bad ones—and nothing in the middle. No common ground. No compromise. My grams is in total “bitch” mode for some reason, which is really getting on my nerves. It sounds horrible and she may be a 72-year-old little old lady, but there are still moments when I’d love nothing more than to punch her in the face. Seriously. She can really make me mad sometimes. Recently, it’s had a lot to do with me getting a restraining order against one of my aunts, her oldest daughter. Which was totally justified, I might add. It caused some problems and they didn’t talk for a couple of months…but they’ve since patched things up. Which is wonder-effin-ful for THEM. Seeing how they’ve made up, my grandmother of course seems to think I should to and that I should just get over it all. Get over it all? Give me an effin break. The bitch shoved me and punched me in the face…AND had the nerve to go and flat-out lie in court by saying she never touched me. Not only that–she also tried making me look bad by saying I was mean to her 9-year-old grand-daughter—her granddaughter that picked up , tried throwing a wooden stool at me, then said she was going to “go to the kitchen, get a knife, and then slit my throat and watch me bleed to death”—that granddaughter. While it’s no secret that I can’t stand the little bitch—and I really can’t—I never did a damn thing to her. Well, besides bursting her little bubble in that her thieving mother was in jail and not “on a little vacation” like my aunt told her and telling the little witch not to speak or look at me, that is. The girl may only be nine years old, but if you ask me, she’s a little sociopath. All that considered—there’s no way in hell I’m going to let it go or work things out with my aunt. My grandmother can buy into her little act of contrition…but I’m sure as hell not going to. I know my aunt. She does this all the time. She causes problems for everyone and stabs them in the back whenever she gets the urge…then lets it all blow over a couple weeks or months and then she’s back—no apologies, no ounce of remorse…nothing. In fact, this has been going on for almost thirty years now with her. It’s always the same damn thing. She thinks who she is and acts like the world and everyone in it owes her something…and it doesn’t and they don’t. Her problem is jealousy. She’s always been jealous of the fact that my grandmother has treated my siblings and me better than her kids. It’s true, but then her kids were total uppity brats, so what else did she expect? She’s also jealous of our success—seeing how her kids dropped out of school, never went to college, and are in and out of jail constantly for stealing stuff. Which they get from her, I might add. She too likes taking things that don’t belong to her. They learned from the best I guess. And now, she’s jealous of the kids (my nieces and nephew)—again for my grandmother treating them better than my aunt’s grandkids. It’s pretty pathetic really…a grown woman being jealous of little kids. She’s ridiculous.
Anyways, that’s not even all of it. There’s more. There’s the situation with her daughter too—my cousin (who also happens to be a bitch). She stabbed me in the back herself 3 years ago…screwed me over for no reason whatsoever except for that she was jealous that I was happy and that things were going well for me when her life, at the time, was a miserable mess. It’s not so much about what she did as it is about her just doing it in general. She betrayed me for no reason when I’d never done a damn thing to her. In fact, I was pretty much the only friend she had since she’d moved back from California and had broken up with her baby’s daddy. I took her out with my friends and me. I listened to her vent and cry about her screwed up love life. Hell, she even made me her youngest daughter’s godmother. We were close. We were friends. Or at least I thought we were…until she so underhandedly threw me under a bus, so to speak. We haven’t talked since and we never will. Especially not after her latest little stunt a couple of months ago when she got in my face at a store and threatened me. Like her mother, the bitch didn’t think I’d do anything about it. But I did. I went right from the store to the police station and fled a report for harassment against her. I never heard anything more about it until a few days ago when my mother was at court with my brother and she too, having been arrested again for stealing, was there for her court appearance as well. Apparently she was just looking at a fine until the charge mentioned that he also had a report of harassment against her. When he told her it was my report—she flipped. According to my mother she turned right around and said in front of the judge, lawyer, and everyone that she was going to kill me, that I was dead. Yeah, bright move there. Now I guess she’s facing up to 18 months or 2 years. Maybe I’m a bitch for saying it, but I think its effin awesome. What can I say—karma’s a bitch. Gotta loooove it. I do.

So yeah, there’s all that drama and some other things too that I’m just plain sick and tired of. I have to get out of here before they drive me crazy…which is soon, I’m sure. It’s not just that and them though. It’s other stuff. It’s everything. I feel like this place is suffocating me, like I can’t breathe. I feel like it’s destroying me, slow but surely. If I don’t go now, it’s going to eat me alive inside. I don’t want that. I want to have a life. I want to live. That’s why I HAVE to leave. But I’m scared. I don’t want to do it alone. That wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She was supposed to go with me. We were supposed to do this together.
It’s not just about not wanting to be in a city alone. It’s so much more than that. It’s about wanting my best friend back. That’s what it was about for me. Everything is different now, so much has changed. Our friendship is nothing like it used to be. It’s a mess. I don’t think either of us wants to admit it, but it’s not the same. So much is missing. So much is screwed up. And it has been since we made up after that year of not talking. It changed everything, it really did. I mean, on the surface it seems okay, but it’s not. Not really. Maybe I’m being ridiculous and blowing things all out of proportion, I don’t know. If this were three years ago, I would have said that was crazy…that there was no way that would ever happen. That probably would have been true…THEN. But things have changed. Things aren’t like they used to be. We aren’t the same people that we were then. We’re different. Our friendship is different. Everything’s different. If this were three years ago, the distance wouldn’t have mattered. Our friendship would have been strong enough to withstand something like this. But this isn’t 3 years ago. This is now. And truth be told, our friendship is on shaky ground–and has been for a while now. And the worst part is knowing that it’s my fault for that. I did it. I pushed her away. I shut her out of my life for a year. And in doing so, I learned how to cope on my own; how to be okay…how to not need anyone. It sounds horrible, but it’s true. Which is why I know my fear isn’t as ridiculous as you might think. I know that it can happen, because it has.

Granted, people change and grow apart and whatnot…but we’re not most people, she and I. We’ve literally been through hell and back with each other. We’ve been through so much over the years that–to be perfectly honest–it really is a miracle that we’re still friends. I can’t tell you how many people have said that over the years, but there’s a lot. Oddly enough, I know exactly where they’re coming from because honestly, I’ve asked myself that same question countless times over the years. I know it makes no sense. I mean, for all intended urposes, we shouldn’t be friends. We’re too different, too irrational, too…a lot of things. The way that we argue you would think we were sisters or something. It’s crazy. SHE’S crazy. She gets drunk and mad and throws hammers around. She even threw a bottle at some guy’s head one night, which in turn nearly got us shot. (Lesson to be learned from that–don’t throw beer bottles at a gang member who has a gun in his back pocket…umm, yeah.) But despite all those things and all her other crazy antics, I love the girl to death. I really do. I mean, she’s crazy and irrational and too damn stubborn for her own good sometimes, but she’s also my best friend. She knows me better than anyone else, my family included. She knows all my secrets–well, most of them anyhow. She knows when something’s wrong even when I say it’s fine. She knows when to push and when to back off. Honestly, she’s like my other half–in a non-lesbian whatever kind of way. Sure, we fight and we disagree and we throw things, but I know that no matter what, she’ll always be there–even when the rest of the world walks out. Granted, to the rest of the world, our friendship might seem like a disaster waiting to happen (and sometimes it kind of is) but then, the rest of the world doesn’t know what we’ve been through. The world may not understand it–hell, I don’t even understand it–but somehow, it works for us. Or at least it used to.

We’re supposed to be best friends forever. Nothing was supposed to change that. Hell, I never thought anything could even. And now…now I’m not so sure. Of that. Or a lot of things, really. I don’t know. It just…it all just seems so uncertain, you know? I feel like we were just starting to fix things and that we were getting somewhere. I mean, I was even starting to believe that maybe there was a chance we could get back some of what was lost because of that year of silence. I don’t know.

Maybe I was naive and foolish to even think that we could actually fix things. Maybe I wanted it too much…expected too much. I don’t know. I guess I just thought that the move would fix things–that it’d give us time and a chance to work things out. I don’t know what I thought, honestly. I just want it back. I want my best friend back–the old one–the one I knew before everything went to hell. I miss that girl. I miss her. I miss being able to tell her anything. I miss not having to hide away or having to pretend that everything is fine when everything is NOT fine. It’s just so hard. And it hurts so much. I hate what I did. I hate that I hurt her. But I hate HIM most of all. He caused it, albeit indirectly. He backed me into a corner and gave me no choice but to do what I did. He played me for the fool and in doing so had me convinced that no one could be trusted. He tore my world apart, shattering everything I thought to be true. HE did that. To this day, I doubt if he even knows that what he did–it didn’t just hurt me…it wasn’t just my life that he destroyed. What he did impacted the lives of others and not just me.

I hate how this has to be. I hate that she’s putting her life on hold again because of some guy. I hate that this is going to come between our friendship. I hate that I can’t change it. Or stop it. I hate that I have to stand here and do nothing while everything falls apart…again. I hate this sick feeling I have that this is it–this is the last straw–that ultimately, this is going to wreck our friendship. But unfortunately, it is what it is. And there’s nothing we can do… And I hate that. So much.



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