Letter to the Sister
Inspired by peroxidepirate 's post on rage letters.
WARNING: Mentions of family problems, the loss of loved ones, and suicide
Dear Rebecca,
I know you love me. I love you, too. Love has never been our problem. Our problem is the fact we function in two completely different ways, and while I accept yours, you insist mine is inappropriate, rude, and childish. Guess what? I couldn't give a fuck. I gave up on your approval a long time ago. Nothing I do for me makes you proud. I'm not a perfect social performer who can blend into any situation with only my drive and ambition to lead me. That's you. You have a big paycheck and a nice boyfriend.... and am in all other ways utterly miserable.
You drink away your problems. You party away your problems. You talk to no one. It's just Becca against the world and you pretend if you ignore personal issues long enough, they'll just go away.
Fuck that. If I'm unhappy, I'm going to do something about it. I'll never make as much money as you do. I can't work 16 hour shifts and barely see anyone during the day. I'm not a workaholic. But, the honest fact is? I am so much happier than you are. I'm not more successful. I don't have a list of accomplishments as long as my arm, but you're the only one who's bothered by that.
I know you respect people I don't. Grandma Slaughter is your fucking hero. Personally, I don't see it. She's strong, yes, and she wants to help everyone. She also raised two children who were so fucked up it took them to their forties and beyond to be anything resembling normal human beings. Her children HATED each other for most of their lives. She taught her daughter to be smart, but she squashed her ability to have confidence in herself. When she needed help, she said 'You decided you're an adult, you deal with it.' Mom's first husband tried to convince her she was GOING INSANE, and Grandma's reaction to that was 'You made your bed, now you get to lie in it.'
I don't respect her. I don't at all. And I'm very good at sitting down and shutting up, except for when she obviously doesn't respect me either. At that point, I'll be civil, but I won't take her crap. I will cut her off when she starts preaching about 'How grateful I should be'. Ya know what? No, I didn't live through the fucking Depression. But I have lived with being bed ridden for months at a time since I was a child. I've grown up and lived with problems hopefully neither of you will ever have to understand, but it means I KNOW what's important.
You never had to choose between taking care of the family or graduating, Becca. I did. I ran myself ragged working and pulling a full class load until I realized it DIDN'T FUCKING MATTER. High School? Is flexible. Everyone likes to say it isn't. That's bullshit. While you were off at college getting skunk drunk on your weekends, I was the sole source of income for our family. Yeah, Becca, remember then? It was while Dad was unemployed for 9 months, Mom was prepping and recovering from open chest surgery, and Emma's bones were deteriorating and no one knew why. You don't get to tell me to grow up. I walked into the principles office and told her exactly what I was going to do, and she thought it was silly to delay graduation. I did it anyway.
GUESS WHAT? No one cares. Not a single person. I graduated a year late, I went to college, and now I've transfered with a pretty 3.3 GPA that I FOUGHT for through depression, intra-cranial hypertension, sick animals, and a dead brother.
Yeah, I live with the parents. Yeah, they pay for all my bills. Yeah, they bought me a house.
... Lets do the math real quick. Four years at your fancy-assed school at 40,000 per year for tuition, with 9,000 for housing, and 5,000 for food. 55,000 dollars every year, for four years = 220,000 dollars - none of which they are getting back. ... So far, they've spent less than 20,000 on three years of schooling for me. My house is 65,000 dollars - ALL of which they will get back upon resale. Even adding my future tuition - 12,000 per year, possibly for four years - I'm still the cheaper baby. You can take your 'When you're paying your own bills' shpeel and shove it up your ass.
If I were lazy, incapable, or free-loading, Dad would've thrown me out. Wanna know why he never did? Because after Andrew died, I'M what held this family together. I'm the one who'd cut dad off when he drank too much. I'm the one who'd stay up all night and let him talk and cry. I'm the one who'd hold Mom when she couldn't take it anymore. I'm the one who stood there and listened when she talked about how the world had no right to continue on without him.
Yeah, Becca. I'm the one who got to listen to Mom say all of my future was pointless because Andrew wasn't around to see it.
You? Got angry at him. Angry at his girlfriend. Angry at yourself. You got angry, and silent, and shoved it all back so hard that you STILL haven't dealt with it, because you're big perfect big brother failed you.
He was my big perfect brother too. Did you know, I function EXACTLY like him? Except I've never been afraid to be weak. I've never felt the need to sacrifice myself for others. If I can't take care of myself, I can't support anyone else. That doesn't make me selfish, it makes me responsible. It makes me honest. It makes me a problem solver, because I actually face life when it's cruel and I make it through. I heal. It means I'll never take a gun, put it to my temple, and blow my brains out, because of a fucking GIRL.
I love you, Becca, but I don't give a flying fuck about making you happy. You're not my idol. I don't want to be you. I can see your strengths bright as day and I can see the weaknesses you pretend aren't there.
I don't have your pathological need to be perfect. I'm not. I'm 100% ok with that. I'm me, every inch and every fiber, and I OWN it. If I'm unhappy, I change it. I'm not afraid of ripped jeans or a few extra pounds. I don't need to hide behind society's picture of what accomplishment is to feel I've made something of myself.
Instead of helping you find your strengths, Andrew's death has made you brittle. You're afraid of being him. You're afraid of not being good enough. It makes your hold on to all the wrong things and I don't want them. It's not my job to fix you. You want different things, and I'm ok with that. I wish you the best and all the happiness in the world. I know you can deal with problems - maybe not the best and certainly not the way I would, but you're not stupid. I trust you.
It's time you trusted me, too.
I'm so much like Andrew, I know, but I'm all the good things you counted on. The things you loved. I know you're afraid for me, but I'm not a screw up. I don't need to be you to be safe.
Griff