OH, YOU CAN’T HEAR ME CRY.
SEE MY DREAMS ALL DIE.
FROM WHERE YOU’RE STANDING ON YOUR OWN.
IT’S SO QUIET HERE.
AND I FEEL SO COLD.
THIS HOUSE NO LONGER FEELS LIKE HOME…” (B.C)
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.