Honesty and kindness will solve every problem, if given enough time. Not patch or ignore or put aside but truly, entirely solve. These two fundamental things lead to trust and respect - the very building blocks of love. Unfortunately, the less superficial a wound is, the longer it takes to heal. Meaning love also requires patience. This is my greatest point of struggle.
I think maybe the reason I've been thinking about my brother so much lately is because I found what I believe is the brand of ginger snaps he used to get that I'd secretly eat when he left them in his bedroom unattended. In addition to this, I read Interview with the Vampire and tunelessly strummed his Ibanez while he was at work. Why? Because I idolized him. A childhood devoid of being able to invite friends over to your garage sale home means an unhealthy obsession with the only person even remotely near your age. Seven years in the future to a ten year old is the epitome of adulthood and you spend basically every day imagining yourself that way.
He trained me in Dvorak (alternate keyboard layout, Google it if you don't understand and would like to), at such a young age that I barely recall it. I do remember picking it up pretty quickly. I don't remember why I learned it in the first place other than my brother was having me do it. Although I spent years in classrooms being denied administrative powers to change the keyboard layout, resulting in me either typing most of my essays at home or typing them slowly and painfully in QWERTY. It's the difference between 100 wpm (words per minute), and 60 wpm on a good day.
My mother says we'll never get along, not unless I change. At this point, though, I've changed my behavior as far as I can without neglecting myself. If I can't be entirely open, I don't want to penetrate my darkness at all. Either it's all mine or I'm letting go of it entirely. This is a borderline trait, one I've mostly worked through. Very little grey area - the negative behavior it's associated with called "splitting". Once my emotions are high, however, I'm back to my old thought processes and everything is either black or white.
I just have to take a deep breath and remember. Remember when he taught me to ride a bike, when he convinced me to go sledding, when he humored me and told me about his life, his interests, his beliefs. He always was and always will be more important to me than any other man aside from Nicholas. In an act of trying to purge myself and heal, I've transferred my pain onto someone who likely doesn't even remember half of the things I do. Depression is strange like that. It feeds on you so slowly and quietly you don't even notice what you're missing up there unless someone brings it up.
We are both adults now. Both very different people than we used to be. Yet that's the strange thing about family - they have this way of making you feel exactly the same way you did 10 years before that, even relapsing into old behaviors you forgot you used to do. For me, I usually feel powerless, scared and stupid. One Thanksgiving we got drunk and sang Disney songs. I couldn't figure out if we were getting along because drinking made us forget why we fought or because drinking helped us remember we were no longer children. That was the last time I think we ever laughed together. Before Nicholas and I were married and before Viridian was born. Maybe 2011?
The intelligence and maturity gap starts to become more narrow the older you become yet it seems as if that's no longer our issue. Maybe, in truth, we're simply incompatible people who, had they met through any other means, would immediately realize what a terribly mismatched pair they were if it wasn't for the fact that their blood bond made this fact irrelevant. My brother once told me, "We're the closest to each other, genetically. We share the same pool." Looking at us now, I doubt anyone would ever guess that.
What do I do now? I'm tired of being hurt. I know that I can act like a sandwich bag full of razor blades but I try so desperately to suffocate my psychotic tendencies. My brother is basically that friend who moved away in high school. I know so much about him yet who he is now just doesn't seem to match what I have stored. Perhaps that is his problem with me.
Truthfully, the whole situation is just a painful mess and often I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who cares. To be fair, though, I am also the only one with a blog. I've often found people generally care more than you think they do, it's just a matter of them deciding to show it.
It begins with honesty. Kindness will follow.