(no subject)
I really didn't want to type this all out on the internet because I don't think anyone really wants to read about my horrible relationship with my brother. But, I haven't quite found the journal I want yet, the one if you will. And I'm picky when it comes to those things, so this will have to do.
The thing is, I know you aren't supposed to hate your family. In the end, they really are going to be the only ones that are left when it's time for you to kick the bucket. Knowing this, it makes me ashamed to say that I really do hate my brother.
Just so I'm clear with everyone, it isn't the kind of sibling hate that most siblings feel with one sibling takes the other sibling's piece of cake. It's an awful, dangerous sort of hate. The kind of hate that stews and bubbles like a moat churning with bright green algae. It's a bitter, crippling, depreciating hate. It's the kind of hate that sizzles, seethes, broils, and hisses with the kind of passion that only lovers feel on their honeymoon when they're tumbling over the edge in a mass of sweat, sheets, and orgasm.
And worst of all, it's a satisfying, delectable hate. I love it, and I hate that I love it.
I swear on my grave that I know and understand that I shouldn't feel this way about my own blood. But the truth is, I do, and I can't hide that truth anymore. I hate him. I hate him so much that it terrifies me sometimes. And worst of all, I love that I hate him so much.
I hate him because he doesn't appreciate anything he's ever been given. He never knew what it felt like to be put on my father's back-burner when baseball season came around. He never knew what it felt like for my mother to be put on my father's back-burner. All those times that my father drove him to and from baseball, coached his games, invested tons of money into gear and equipment, even practiced with him outside... and he doesn't give a flippin' shit about it.
I hate him because he's violent and volatile. There was one night that a simple discussion of a job at Applebees caused him to go into a rage. He threw me around the kitchen, tossing me into the chairs and the table. He slammed me into the walls, threatened to kill me. He even choked me, albeit briefly, before my dad finally intervened. And, of course, Dad was on his side, telling me that I should watch my mouth before "insulting" Drew, though the real story was that I had just wanted to know why he'd work at Applebees, and not some sports store, where he could get more equipment for baseball or something. I had started crying, feeling betrayed, and told him I was going to call the police for assault. Dad popped me in the mouth a few times, telling me I wasn't going to. After that, he wouldn't let me at the phone. Not even my cell phone. The only thing I could do was collect myself and go to Sean's house for the night. It's a shame I don't bruise easily, because I showed no results of that fight the next day. But if I had, I would have disregarded my father and gone straight to the police station, anyway.
He knows I won't stand up for myself like that again. At least, he thinks he knows. I'm reaching another breaking point, very quickly. And something tells me that the next time this happens, it's going to be worse. One of us will end up in the hospital. And the other will end up in jail.
I hate him because he's gotten off with so many things scotch-free. When he crashed his car the first time, my dad griped and complained, but ultimately didn't think twice of putting him back on the road with replacement parts that he paid for out of pocket. When Drew crashed his car the second time and fled the scene, the woman whose car he hit told the police she wasn't going to press charges, and my dad ultimately ended up paying to replace the mailbox he had hit. When he was failing school and was in danger of not graduating, the school froze his GPA and dropped the classes that he was failing so that they could just get him the fuck out of there. When he got busted for possession of pot, my mom weaseled him out of being arrested. And when my cousins, who we haven't seen for two years, happened upon his bong while he was at work, all my parents did was move him out of his room and into his own room. No one has punished him. No one will punish him. He hasn't learned a fucking thing from all his mistakes. One would think, at the very least, that he would sense that his luck was about to change, and would just fucking give up after a while.
But no, he won't give up because he doesn't fucking care.
He doesn't care that his behavior is causing a schism between my parents. My dad has taken his side, and my mom feels alone. She comes to me and sobs, telling me that she is "a horrible mother." She comes to me and asks me what she's done wrong. She comes to me and tells me that she's done "playing this fucking game," and that she just "fucking wants out of it." And can I say anything? No, not really. Because as soon as I start telling her like it is, she gets angry and tells me that it's all happening because it's "his age" and that he'll "grow out of it, eventually." She's in denial because she loves him, and he just doesn't give a shit.
He doesn't care that he looks like a fool. He doesn't care that he looks like a fuckup. He doesn't care that everyone in our family is starting to see him as useless as a lump of dog shit sizzling on the road. He doesn't care that he looks like a pathetic, spoiled little boy who's just angry that he doesn't think he's getting the attention he deserves, when really, he's just stealing it from people who need it.
Today is Sean's father's 50th birthday, and I had been invited. Today also happens to be Drew's graduation. I don't want to watch him walk that stage. I don't want to because he doesn't deserve to. I worked my ass off in high school to get out of there, graduated with a 3.5 GPA, and came out proud and tall. He's farted off his entire time, managing graduation by the skin of his teeth, and he's going to be fucking proud as he does it. And I think he's fucking stupid for being proud of it. He doesn't deserve this graduation because the school gave it to him. He didn't work for it, and he has nothing to show for it. How can anyone be proud of that?
But, I'm better than him. I'm the bigger person. I'm going to go, but I'm not going for him. I'm going for my mom. I'm going because that's what she'd want me to do, and because I'm the only one on her side. I'm going to miss my future father-in-law's birthday party to watch my fuckup for a brother receive a diploma that he certainly doesn't deserve.
Ultimately, this didn't turn out like I wanted it to. There's so much more that I want to say. But, as calming as getting all this out feels, it's making me even more angry, and so I'm just going to stop here.
The thing is, I know you aren't supposed to hate your family. In the end, they really are going to be the only ones that are left when it's time for you to kick the bucket. Knowing this, it makes me ashamed to say that I really do hate my brother.
Just so I'm clear with everyone, it isn't the kind of sibling hate that most siblings feel with one sibling takes the other sibling's piece of cake. It's an awful, dangerous sort of hate. The kind of hate that stews and bubbles like a moat churning with bright green algae. It's a bitter, crippling, depreciating hate. It's the kind of hate that sizzles, seethes, broils, and hisses with the kind of passion that only lovers feel on their honeymoon when they're tumbling over the edge in a mass of sweat, sheets, and orgasm.
And worst of all, it's a satisfying, delectable hate. I love it, and I hate that I love it.
I swear on my grave that I know and understand that I shouldn't feel this way about my own blood. But the truth is, I do, and I can't hide that truth anymore. I hate him. I hate him so much that it terrifies me sometimes. And worst of all, I love that I hate him so much.
I hate him because he doesn't appreciate anything he's ever been given. He never knew what it felt like to be put on my father's back-burner when baseball season came around. He never knew what it felt like for my mother to be put on my father's back-burner. All those times that my father drove him to and from baseball, coached his games, invested tons of money into gear and equipment, even practiced with him outside... and he doesn't give a flippin' shit about it.
I hate him because he's violent and volatile. There was one night that a simple discussion of a job at Applebees caused him to go into a rage. He threw me around the kitchen, tossing me into the chairs and the table. He slammed me into the walls, threatened to kill me. He even choked me, albeit briefly, before my dad finally intervened. And, of course, Dad was on his side, telling me that I should watch my mouth before "insulting" Drew, though the real story was that I had just wanted to know why he'd work at Applebees, and not some sports store, where he could get more equipment for baseball or something. I had started crying, feeling betrayed, and told him I was going to call the police for assault. Dad popped me in the mouth a few times, telling me I wasn't going to. After that, he wouldn't let me at the phone. Not even my cell phone. The only thing I could do was collect myself and go to Sean's house for the night. It's a shame I don't bruise easily, because I showed no results of that fight the next day. But if I had, I would have disregarded my father and gone straight to the police station, anyway.
He knows I won't stand up for myself like that again. At least, he thinks he knows. I'm reaching another breaking point, very quickly. And something tells me that the next time this happens, it's going to be worse. One of us will end up in the hospital. And the other will end up in jail.
I hate him because he's gotten off with so many things scotch-free. When he crashed his car the first time, my dad griped and complained, but ultimately didn't think twice of putting him back on the road with replacement parts that he paid for out of pocket. When Drew crashed his car the second time and fled the scene, the woman whose car he hit told the police she wasn't going to press charges, and my dad ultimately ended up paying to replace the mailbox he had hit. When he was failing school and was in danger of not graduating, the school froze his GPA and dropped the classes that he was failing so that they could just get him the fuck out of there. When he got busted for possession of pot, my mom weaseled him out of being arrested. And when my cousins, who we haven't seen for two years, happened upon his bong while he was at work, all my parents did was move him out of his room and into his own room. No one has punished him. No one will punish him. He hasn't learned a fucking thing from all his mistakes. One would think, at the very least, that he would sense that his luck was about to change, and would just fucking give up after a while.
But no, he won't give up because he doesn't fucking care.
He doesn't care that his behavior is causing a schism between my parents. My dad has taken his side, and my mom feels alone. She comes to me and sobs, telling me that she is "a horrible mother." She comes to me and asks me what she's done wrong. She comes to me and tells me that she's done "playing this fucking game," and that she just "fucking wants out of it." And can I say anything? No, not really. Because as soon as I start telling her like it is, she gets angry and tells me that it's all happening because it's "his age" and that he'll "grow out of it, eventually." She's in denial because she loves him, and he just doesn't give a shit.
He doesn't care that he looks like a fool. He doesn't care that he looks like a fuckup. He doesn't care that everyone in our family is starting to see him as useless as a lump of dog shit sizzling on the road. He doesn't care that he looks like a pathetic, spoiled little boy who's just angry that he doesn't think he's getting the attention he deserves, when really, he's just stealing it from people who need it.
Today is Sean's father's 50th birthday, and I had been invited. Today also happens to be Drew's graduation. I don't want to watch him walk that stage. I don't want to because he doesn't deserve to. I worked my ass off in high school to get out of there, graduated with a 3.5 GPA, and came out proud and tall. He's farted off his entire time, managing graduation by the skin of his teeth, and he's going to be fucking proud as he does it. And I think he's fucking stupid for being proud of it. He doesn't deserve this graduation because the school gave it to him. He didn't work for it, and he has nothing to show for it. How can anyone be proud of that?
But, I'm better than him. I'm the bigger person. I'm going to go, but I'm not going for him. I'm going for my mom. I'm going because that's what she'd want me to do, and because I'm the only one on her side. I'm going to miss my future father-in-law's birthday party to watch my fuckup for a brother receive a diploma that he certainly doesn't deserve.
Ultimately, this didn't turn out like I wanted it to. There's so much more that I want to say. But, as calming as getting all this out feels, it's making me even more angry, and so I'm just going to stop here.