(no subject)
Had to go to the doctor today . . . not surprisingly, the cold I picked up on the plane turned into a sinus infection. Apparently, this happens a lot when you struggle with chronic allergies and asthma. The doc says things were well on the way to bronchitis, so it's good I got in there when I did. Got my scrips and got out, and then the day went downhill.
I haven't spoken to my younger brother, my only sibling, in over five years. The final reason for this is that he and our father had a huge fight and my brother wanted me -- well, not on his side, precisely, so much as just not-on-Dad's-side. The last words my brother said to me were, "If you're going to still talk to Dad, I'm not going to talk to you."
I don't respond well to emotional blackmail, so I said a few choice words and hung up.
We've never been terribly close . . . in fact, we've more or less cordially disliked each other since we were old enough to understand the concept -- but, still. He's my brother. Which is something that has always meant considerably more to me than to him. Still, periodically I ask Mom how he's doing, since he sometimes keeps in touch with her, and you know? If anything horrible ever happened, I'd be there for him.
I'm pretty certain that it's not reciprocated.
When I came out of the doctor's office this morning, some jackass in a pickup truck had pulled in illegally, so close to me that I couldn't get into my car. After much to-ing and fro-ing, the receptionist in the doctor's office went into the exam rooms to ask if anyone drove a red pickup, and if so, could they move it.
Imagine my surprise when this guy comes out and it turns out to be my brother.
We stared at each other for a minute, both of us obviously surprised. Finally, for lack of something better, I said, "Hey. What's up?"
He ignored me and turned away.
I followed him through the doors and waited while he moved his truck. After he did, and got out, I said thanks with absolutely no sarcasm. Honest! I meant it! I wasn't going to start a fight. If he didn't want to talk to me, he didn't have to. End of discussion, as far as I was concerned.
As I was opening the door and getting ready to climb into the car, he said to me, "Got any money for me?"
I paused, honestly confused, and asked him what he was talking about . . . inadvertently opening the floodgates of a rant on how I supposedly stole money from him when we both still lived at home.
This was ten fucking years ago.
First off, I didn't do it. My personal suspicion is that one of his many women cleaned him out after finding out about all the other girls he had on a string.
Second of all, every time he brings up the incident, both the time frame, the number of occurences, and the dollar amount changes dramatically.
Ten years ago, the accusation was once, for three hundred dollars, on a Thursday night.
Now he's up to three separate occasions, totaling more than two thousand dollars, on successive weekends when he was away visiting whichever girlfriend was the flavor of the month.
He announced proudly today that he could prove it, because at the time, he'd gone into my room and read through my checkbook, finding a record of a deposit for a large sum of money on a date corresponding with his missing funds. And, he said, I couldn't defend myself by claiming it was for a student loan refund check, because that money had been deposited some months before.
Unbelievable.
Ten fucking years, and that's all he can think about?
Five years since we've even spoken to one another, and that's all he has to say to me?
So we stood in the parking lot of the doctor's office, exchanging barbs for a good ten minutes before he just walked away.
I couldn't believe it.
It's not how I ever thought any such chance meeting would turn out. I regularly walk down the streets of Philly, wondering periodically if today will be the day that I run into my estranged brother on the street . . . wondering how our discussion might go.
I knew it would never be a fall-into-each-other's-arms, tear-filled reunion. I guess I just kind of figured that basic pleasantries would be exchanged, and a bit of catch-up over family business . . . relatives born, died, married, and so forth. Maybe a few snide comments directed at each other's physical appearance, and then we'd both salute and move on.
Ships greeting each other at sea, one might say.
I'm mad, and I'm hurt, and I'm mad because I'm hurt when I know that he doesn't feel any pain at all. Except maybe his grand sense of outraged justice over my supposed theft. My brother has both bipolar and borderline personality disorder, and he's never been overly concerned with how anyone except himself might feel in any given situation.
Yeah, yeah, cut the mentally ill some slack. I'd like to, except that all our lives, he's been demanding that everyone do just that. I'm tired of it.
It might be better if I could stop thinking of him as "my brother", and instead just consider him some asshole I happen to know. Unfortunately, it's not that easy for me.
It's kind of like how I feel about my paternal grandmother now, after all that shit she pulled with my grandfather's funeral.
They might suck, but they're still family.
I wish I could care less about that.
I haven't spoken to my younger brother, my only sibling, in over five years. The final reason for this is that he and our father had a huge fight and my brother wanted me -- well, not on his side, precisely, so much as just not-on-Dad's-side. The last words my brother said to me were, "If you're going to still talk to Dad, I'm not going to talk to you."
I don't respond well to emotional blackmail, so I said a few choice words and hung up.
We've never been terribly close . . . in fact, we've more or less cordially disliked each other since we were old enough to understand the concept -- but, still. He's my brother. Which is something that has always meant considerably more to me than to him. Still, periodically I ask Mom how he's doing, since he sometimes keeps in touch with her, and you know? If anything horrible ever happened, I'd be there for him.
I'm pretty certain that it's not reciprocated.
When I came out of the doctor's office this morning, some jackass in a pickup truck had pulled in illegally, so close to me that I couldn't get into my car. After much to-ing and fro-ing, the receptionist in the doctor's office went into the exam rooms to ask if anyone drove a red pickup, and if so, could they move it.
Imagine my surprise when this guy comes out and it turns out to be my brother.
We stared at each other for a minute, both of us obviously surprised. Finally, for lack of something better, I said, "Hey. What's up?"
He ignored me and turned away.
I followed him through the doors and waited while he moved his truck. After he did, and got out, I said thanks with absolutely no sarcasm. Honest! I meant it! I wasn't going to start a fight. If he didn't want to talk to me, he didn't have to. End of discussion, as far as I was concerned.
As I was opening the door and getting ready to climb into the car, he said to me, "Got any money for me?"
I paused, honestly confused, and asked him what he was talking about . . . inadvertently opening the floodgates of a rant on how I supposedly stole money from him when we both still lived at home.
This was ten fucking years ago.
First off, I didn't do it. My personal suspicion is that one of his many women cleaned him out after finding out about all the other girls he had on a string.
Second of all, every time he brings up the incident, both the time frame, the number of occurences, and the dollar amount changes dramatically.
Ten years ago, the accusation was once, for three hundred dollars, on a Thursday night.
Now he's up to three separate occasions, totaling more than two thousand dollars, on successive weekends when he was away visiting whichever girlfriend was the flavor of the month.
He announced proudly today that he could prove it, because at the time, he'd gone into my room and read through my checkbook, finding a record of a deposit for a large sum of money on a date corresponding with his missing funds. And, he said, I couldn't defend myself by claiming it was for a student loan refund check, because that money had been deposited some months before.
Unbelievable.
Ten fucking years, and that's all he can think about?
Five years since we've even spoken to one another, and that's all he has to say to me?
So we stood in the parking lot of the doctor's office, exchanging barbs for a good ten minutes before he just walked away.
I couldn't believe it.
It's not how I ever thought any such chance meeting would turn out. I regularly walk down the streets of Philly, wondering periodically if today will be the day that I run into my estranged brother on the street . . . wondering how our discussion might go.
I knew it would never be a fall-into-each-other's-arms, tear-filled reunion. I guess I just kind of figured that basic pleasantries would be exchanged, and a bit of catch-up over family business . . . relatives born, died, married, and so forth. Maybe a few snide comments directed at each other's physical appearance, and then we'd both salute and move on.
Ships greeting each other at sea, one might say.
I'm mad, and I'm hurt, and I'm mad because I'm hurt when I know that he doesn't feel any pain at all. Except maybe his grand sense of outraged justice over my supposed theft. My brother has both bipolar and borderline personality disorder, and he's never been overly concerned with how anyone except himself might feel in any given situation.
Yeah, yeah, cut the mentally ill some slack. I'd like to, except that all our lives, he's been demanding that everyone do just that. I'm tired of it.
It might be better if I could stop thinking of him as "my brother", and instead just consider him some asshole I happen to know. Unfortunately, it's not that easy for me.
It's kind of like how I feel about my paternal grandmother now, after all that shit she pulled with my grandfather's funeral.
They might suck, but they're still family.
I wish I could care less about that.