I had a good talk with my beloved brother yesterday.
I’ve mentioned him on occasion, but because of my early onset of Alheimer’s that I seem to be suffering from this week, I do not recall exactly what I have written about him.
My brother is the product of my flaky mother and her first asshole husband. (Which technically makes my brother only my half-brother, but we shall not split hairs- mainly because the ones on my head are already split.) Let us just say that because of the tender age my mother was when she gave birth to my sibling, he did not receive the care he perhaps may have gotten if she had been 30 and fully matured. He was 12 when I was born, and excited to have a beautiful baby sister who was me.
I was far too young to remember much about the time he lived with us before my dad kicked him out for smoking pot, but I remember fondly the brotherly love he bestowed upon me- namely, flicking the end of my nose, (that hurt like a bitch!) and swatting my ass with a flyswatter after I repeatedly spit on his leather jacket, which I did only to show off to his friends. I did not get know truly know him until I was 18 and out of the house, because my parents treated him as a pariah, and were afraid he would be a bad influence on me. (As if I wasn’t a bad enough influence on myself.)
My Brother had a nervous breakdown at his last job, around the time I got to know him, and was diagnosed with depression and some other mental issues I fail to recall at this time. I remember the first time I went to visit him after not knowing him for most of my life, and found that he was not a normal person- mainly because he was much kinder, and more sensitive and loving than the normal people who go around only caring about themselves every day. We fast became friends, despite being complete opposites- he was raised with no structure while I was raise in an invisible churchy prison; he has no job while I have for the most part worked overtime my entire working life; I have a faith I believe firmly in, while he hasn’t an idea what to believe.
Because we did not exactly grow up as brother and sister conventionally do, we have many conversations that I’m not sure normal siblings have. We talk of love, and sex, and dreams. He told me of the one woman he truly loved, a 350 lb. black woman who he had worked with and gone to movies with who had been 15 years his senior. I told him of my deep desire to have children, and of how we should start a band, because he plays drums and I piano, and we both adore music.
When I was with my ex-husband, he could not understand why I visited my brother so often. “He doesn’t have a job” and “He lives off of disability” were his repeated statements. I tried to explain to him that a job (or lack thereof) does not make a person who they are, unless they intend it to be that way. While I do not necessarily carry a deep devotion to family, I see my brother as my brother, whether he has a job or smokes alotta weed or is depressed more than the average person.
About 9 months ago, my brother told me he met a girl, and I was ecstatic for him. It did not take me long, however, to realize from what he told me that this bitch was a crazy useless ‘ho, who perhaps unintentionally was preying on my brother’s sensitivity. I could not hide my dislike for her when he introduced her to me- after I left she was quick to ask my brother if I hated her.
I’ve not had a lot of time to go visit my brother in the last months, but we’ve talked on the phone enough for me to know he’s had a tough time letting go of this insane chic, but when I talked to him yesterday, he calmly told me he has come to a conclusion: He is convinced that I am the woman in his life.
His statement is not to be thought of in disgusting incestual terms, for he means it not in that way at all. All he meant is that I am the one woman who has always been there for him, and never let him down, and never expected anything from him except for him to be himself. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he has been that to me as well. He always is happy to see me, and expects naught from me except my sisterly love.
Incidentally, I’ve been together with my Rockstar for 3 years, and he has yet to meet my brother, “the man in my life.” Don’t ask me why, because I know not the reason.