Come and take a step back with me—
And view this cycle objectively.
Do you see this caricature of oppression?
You once stepped on his formerly innocent toes.
Do you feel that ring of familiarity?
Or perhaps you remember this tyrant—
She was the one who, so long ago
You expelled onto an island of humiliation.
Could it be that these menaces of society,
Are really the offspring of our former jealousies?
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Writing Assignment 3 Draft 1
Take a step back with me—
And view this cycle objectively.
See this caricature of oppression?
You once stepped on his formerly innocent toes.
Do you feel a ring of familiarity?
No?
Perhaps you remember this tyrant—
She was the one who, so long ago
You expelled onto an island of desperation and humiliation.
Could it be that the menaces of society,
Are really the offspring of our former jealousies?
Think with me, just for a moment now.
What a novel idea!
That the sparing of one’s feelings now—
Could lead to the sparing of lives later?
And view this cycle objectively.
See this caricature of oppression?
You once stepped on his formerly innocent toes.
Do you feel a ring of familiarity?
No?
Perhaps you remember this tyrant—
She was the one who, so long ago
You expelled onto an island of desperation and humiliation.
Could it be that the menaces of society,
Are really the offspring of our former jealousies?
Think with me, just for a moment now.
What a novel idea!
That the sparing of one’s feelings now—
Could lead to the sparing of lives later?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Writing Assignment 2 Final Draft
The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The memory of that day slowly drifted into his head. They had been sitting in seats facing each other, and she had been reading a paper, without moving her eyes, aware that he was watching her. When she had finally looked up the delicious self consciousness of that first contact had captured both of them at once, confining them into an eye contact that made words unnecessary. He ran his hand along the metal handrail. It seemed so long ago.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding meeting his eyes. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus shook them along, and she thought about endings. Popular culture tended to tell stories that ended and closed with beginnings; beginnings of journeys, beginnings of lives, beginning of relationships. What are we told about solid, firm endings? She had expected tears, screaming, compromise, but now, in the midst of her very own ending, it was...empty. Just two people consisting of trailed off memories.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding meeting his eyes. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus shook them along, and she thought about endings. Popular culture tended to tell stories that ended and closed with beginnings; beginnings of journeys, beginnings of lives, beginning of relationships. What are we told about solid, firm endings? She had expected tears, screaming, compromise, but now, in the midst of her very own ending, it was...empty. Just two people consisting of trailed off memories.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Writing Assignment 2 Draft 2
The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The memory of that day slowly drifted into his head. They had been sitting in seats facing each other, and she had been reading a paper, without moving her eyes, aware that he was watching her. When she had finally looked up the delicious self consciousness of that first contact had captured both of them at once, confining them into an eye contact that made words unnecessary. It seemed so long ago.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an extended ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had come to associate with his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact? Their relationship had started as it was ending, in a cycle of fate that had caused them to meet as strangers, and to end as strangers, both being carried on Route 129.
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Writing Assignment 2 Draft 1
The smell of metal and unwashed bodies was overpowering as the bus rocked them through the city. They were alone on the bus, just the two of them, as it had been for so long. As it had been the day that they met on Route 129. The same buzz of the bus and the distant honking of horns, breaking into their cylinder of apparent isolation, apart from the quietly humming bus driver with the purple lips. The late afternoon sun bounced in through the window between her eyes, causing the familiar faint headache that tends to come from an overlong ride on public transportation.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had always gotten from his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact?
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
He silently drummed his fingers on the bus seat that she did not occupy next to him. She cast her eyes from the sun to the floor, where the worn bus carpet was hard with dirt and grime from passengers past. She squinted her eyes, imagining that she could make out each speck of dirt that they had led onto the bus themselves. The dirt that told the stories of all the places they had been, all the places they had shuffled together, the places that always led back to that bus. The bus where they had met on Route 129.
The automatic overhead lights popped on as they went through a tunnel, causing the cream plastic walls to rattle slightly. “Hummmmmmmmmm” They sang to the pair. The lights clicked off again as they emerged from the tunnel, assaulting them with sunlight once more. He momentarily reflected on the fact that rain would be much more appropriate for today. The cheery sunshine seemed to mock him, laughing at the two’s burden of unkept promises.
He put out his hand to her, as he had done so many times, expecting her to hold it. Her hand twitched with the familiarity of it, a surge that went through her fingertips. She attempted to fight it, but her hand drew toward his like a stubborn magnet. As their fingers intertwined she waited for that calm sense of security that she had always gotten from his touch to wash over her. It didn’t. Their two hands, his calloused and large, embracing her smaller, smoother one sat their limply on the stretch of plastic arm rest that divided their two seats. Familiar but with a new sense of discomfort. Like an old sweater that didn’t fit anymore.
They both sat there in a sort of paralyzed way, needing this ride to end but petrified of the bus coming to a halt. To the end of the end.
“Maybe we could go back to being friends?” He asked, looking over at her. What he had meant to come in a normal tone came out in an almost whisper, the words reluctant to leave his lips. The buzz of the bus seamed to increase as the question hung in the air, waiting to be captured with a response. She bit her lip, causing four red indents to appear.
“The thing is we never really were.” She finally responded, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. He nodded with seemingly little emotion. How could he deny such a truthful fact?
The bus turned a corner and gradually began slowing down in the teasing way buses tend to do. The squeaking of a stop then the inching further of the wheels. When at last the bus was still, she willed her knees to straighten. It wasn’t until she was fully standing that he released her hand. She walked to the opening doors, placing one foot on the step. Before completely stepping down to the pavement below she turned around, their eyes meeting one last time. He nodded, and so did she. And soon she had disappeared and the bus was rolling away. He didn’t bother looking out the window to find her. It was the end of Route 129.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
First Writing Assignment Final Draft
Silence. Utter, unbreakable silence. Tears. Wringing of hands. I hate crying. Place mat. Table. Dad. Mom. Brother. Lord, did I mention I hate crying? Or that I hate it when other people cry?
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I usually do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another disappointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. For making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go where ever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting just that.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, and my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I realize now that the hatred I had felt towards my brother wasn't necessarily hatred for him as a person, but rather hatred of what he had become. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice, because whether or not one of us is "better" then the other, we are still defining parts of each other's personalities and lives.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I usually do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another disappointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. For making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go where ever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting just that.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, and my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I realize now that the hatred I had felt towards my brother wasn't necessarily hatred for him as a person, but rather hatred of what he had become. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice, because whether or not one of us is "better" then the other, we are still defining parts of each other's personalities and lives.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
First Writing Assignment Draft 2
Silence. Utter, unbreakable silence. Tears. Wringing of hands. I hate crying. Place mat. Table. Dad. Mom. Brother. Lord, did I mention I hate crying? Or that I hate it when other people cry?I don't really even know why. I never have been comfortable with it. I don't know if it's related to something in my childhood or if it's just because it doesn't happen in my household very often.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I normally do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another dissapointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. We could spend hours making up ridiculous stories and absolutely dreadful jokes and laughing for ages. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go whereever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting that. Later I guess I would find out how destructive it ended up being for us.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves from the combination of belting my voice across the giant Performing Arts Center and the need to know. The fear of what would happen once I did. I remember dialing the call instead of calling her on speed dial like I normally do, attempting to prolong the time before the news came out. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months. Another dissapointment.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look so...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, insists we use) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we all were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. I felt like he had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore. My brother and I have always been close. Sure, when we were little we would have the normal brother and sister bickering, but in the end I always knew how to make him laugh. We could spend hours making up ridiculous stories and absolutely dreadful jokes and laughing for ages. He had always seemed so cool to me. When he would have friends over I would find every reason to go whereever they were in the house. I would bring him fake loads of laundry and cups of hot cocoa, so that just for a moment, I could feel like I belonged. Like I was part of his cool group of friends, and he wanted me there. The feeling I got when I lied for him was like a high in itself. Because for those few, glistening moments, he depended on me, he was thankful for me, he thought I was the coolest sister in the world. Even better was when he would tell his friends that I was covering for them, and they would say that they wished they had a sister as awesome as me. I would sit around, desperate for his approval, and in covering for him I felt as if I was getting that. Later I guess I would find out how destructive it ended up being for us.
All the while I was lying and making up excuses, I let myself think of it as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
That night it was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it's exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
First Writing Assignment
Silence. Utter, unbreakable silence. Tears. Wringing of hands. I hate crying. Place mat. Table. Dad. Mom. Brother. Lord, did I mention I hate crying. Or that I hate it when other people cry?
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, uses) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. He had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore, I let myself think of as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
It was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
I hadn't wanted to hear the news until I got out of auditions. I told my mom not to call me, I didn't want any distraction. When I called her as soon as I walked off the PAC stage, my hands were shaking from the mixture of adrenaline and nerves. I remember the call going something like this.
"Hey."
"Hi honey."
"So?"
"Oh yeah, he's out."
My mother had spoken the last line so matter of factly, like I had asked what color her shoes were. But, if I had asked her about colors she wouldn't have sounded so...broken. You see, there had been a...situation with my brother at boarding school. A situation that involved alcohol and hospitals and throwing up and poisoning and pot and all the negative things you read about in your health textbook. All of these things eventually led to my brother's expulsion from boarding school. All I could think after I hung up the phone was, he couldn't even hold on three months.
Back to the table. I had walked in the door and there they were. My father, sitting at his usual place at the head of the dining room table. My mother to his right. My brother to his left. All of them looking down. My mother looking defeated, my father, with deep deep disappointment. He was slightly shaking his head. I then already knew that I hated my brother. Hate right? That was the feeling I had to be feeling. Hatred for making my father look like that. for making my mother look...empty.
I don't think it was the actual "substance abuse" (The term that our counselor, Bob, uses) that broke everything at once. It was how far my brother had delved into it, without my parents having really any idea. It was the fact that my parents felt like no matter how much they tried to help my brother, it was all in vain. It was how long I had covered for him without even realizing it. It was the fact that it had taken everyone in my family this long to realize how angry we were at each other.
I took my place at the table, to the left of my mom. I remember seeing my brother crying, wanting to punch him. He had no reason to cry, it was his fault that everyone was like this. It was his fault my mother couldn't stop asking where she had gone wrong. I realized that I had never truly been angry before that night. Yes, deep annoyance, all those normal teenage girl feelings...but true, real anger, is different. It feels like the whole world is pushing down on you at once. It's a feeling that starts in your throat and slowly spreads through you, like milk in water, and with every inch it creeps the less control you have. You need to scream and cry and laugh and kick all at once. True anger is looking at someone who you love and has been your best friends for years and wishing that they didn't exist, being sure that they were the cause of every problem in your life, looking at that person and not being able to remember why you ever liked him in the first place. I began making a list in my head of how everything wrong in my life somehow related to my brother and how selfish he was. How self involved, close minded, how weak.
Of course I had been lying for him for years. Once you get into the habit of lying, it doesn't really feel like a lie anymore, I let myself think of as a secret between us, the following of a brother sister code. But with my family, it just couldn't be like that. We couldn't just be normal teenagers who lied to their parents. Everything was taken to new dramatics. Like every lie was a chip from my brothers future, my mother's sanity, my father's pride, my own shelter that I had built around myself.
It was like I had put on a pair of goggles that made me see my brother's selfishness in everything he did. Even when he was apologizing, I was convinced he wasn't sorry. I couldn't even look at him when he was trying to apologize specifically to me. I couldn't just look at him and say that it was okay, I understood, it wasn't his fault that he had a problem. I saw it as completely his fault.
At the end of Thanksgiving Break and we were back at CHS, people would ask what my brother was doing back. Me, being the joker and smoother-over of the family would spin it into a joke. I hated myself for doing it, for belittling the sadness of my house at the moment, for making my brother's mistakes something to laugh over. But I didn't know how else to talk about it. Like I said before, I hated myself for it. And I hated my brother for making me hate myself for making it seem like what he did was okay. I hated the fact that now I felt like I had to be the perfect child, there was no room left for me to make mistakes, because, anymore would make my mother go off the edge.
Weeks passed, and then months. I never stopped being angry. And having that feeling inside of you for that long...gnawing at you, it exhausting. Every time someone brought up my brother I had something to criticize. At one of our counseling sessions my brother said that he felt like I always thought I was better then him. I denied it consistently, but, really, I did. When I put us on two pedestals in my head, it seemed obvious. I got good grades, I never got into trouble, I kept my parents happy, I did chores without asking, I smiled, I kept everyone in the family laughing when there would ordinarily be awkward silence.
In truth, I realize now that I am not better then my brother at all. If anything he is better then me. Despite all of the mistakes and grief he has caused my family, I do believe he really is truly a good person. I believe he very likely has a greater capacity to love then I do, or at least is braver about it. He is able to actually show his emotions to the family, whereas I always cover everything up with a joke. He isn't nearly as quick to judge as me. And as much as I would have denied it months ago, he is sincere in almost everything he does.
I'm not going to say that I not still angry with him. I often still jump to blame him when things go wrong. But I don't hate him, and I never really did. My brother is simply more then human, with more reactive emotions, yearnings, insecurities. And though I may never forgive him for the way he made my parents look that night, and I would give anything to get our relationship from before he went away back, I realize the worth of the fact that he is still the first person I would think to call when I needed help or advice. And I am trying harder and harder every day not to take that for granted.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
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