Dear Step-Brother;
And in my defense, I have none -- I have to stop digging up the gravesite (yet another time). So, I am writing goodbye letters to the people that mattered. It is not the funeral that is difficult; the burial day came and went. The day you left the cemetery; the pain began. Life shifts, new roles adopted -- old ones, abandoned. And there is no one to blame. Only God himself and he didn’t even exist. Just like one cannot pray to Santa Clause to ask for healing; your mother’s eyes remained shut. Even the tabernacle choir that surrounded her could not wish her well. Some things you have to face with your eyes open. It’s the aftermath no one prepares you for; it’s the day everyone forgets. Or thinks it’s time you moved on. The silent tears that one cries on the nights no one is around; that’s pain. It’s all the words left unsaid, the anger that sits inside fermenting till rage boils over. When you just want to talk about it and there are no sentences left. They say move on; only to get a tattoo to commemorate. If it was only as easy as a broken bone. I am still angry at you; jealous. When you were hurt and bleeding; still, your mother held you. Her memories will remain unvarnished. My mother ruled Queen, punishing her subjects with sugar, spice and everything nice. She cooked resentment for dinner; and as she combed my hair -- she told me I was a slut. I wanted to talk to her; she read my diaries. I would have sacrificed my sister to the Gods to feel loved by my own virgin mother. I lost all my faith in Jesus this year; I am letting go of my mother’s expectation of me to sit alongside her in the 144,000 in the upcoming apocalypse. That was a tough mental transition. Thank you for debating me all those years ago; a seed planted, logic grew. My evolution began a long time ago. Letting go of one’s childhood religion is tragic and emotional. My identity was wrapped up in some faulty belief systems. I held on for so long; because I wanted my mother to be proud of me -- of my irrational faith.
There are many forms of death; your sister is dead to me, figuratively. Soon you will be too. And perhaps my writings will be the only thing that outlives all of us. It could be your music that is sung by generations to come. The Grim Reaper follows me everywhere, as he does you. Tell that to a psychiatrist and they prescribe you medications. Tell an artist; they nod in agreement. The psycho in the wards hears voices; so does my psychic. And if you sit still enough, you can feel his dark, cold hand on your shoulder -- just waiting for the appointed time. An anvil suspended above one’s head; when will I be shoved off that cliff? Will my mother die before I speak to her again? What will I say when I lock eyes with you at her funeral? There are no words. You’ve always reminded me of my father: an asshole but honest. You never dumbed shit down. You were the first one who told me about sex. I learned about protection from your dead offspring found in old condoms. My dad asked me yesterday when would I move home? You know, to be closer. I am having adventures on my own now. I got sent ahead. I left a long time ago; the consequences he never saw in full.
I think my mother is happy; she’s in full control now. Millions in the bank account, your father -- her subordinate. My sister called me yesterday laughing at the back-and-forth between the two of them; “Our parents were so perfect for each other; they just had no idea.” Virgin Mary; Mother-of-God walked downstairs with her hair wrapped up in a towel. Her new husband chuckled -- “I would call you towel-head,” and his eyes lowered; ashamed, “but that would be mean, huh?” I remember that feeling; how can you joke without being accused of being a blood sucker? Sarcastic. Disclaimers get met with eye rolls; and you end up laughing alone, awkwardly. If you have to explain that it is a joke; “it’s not funny” she’d say. What couldn’t I expound upon? I am an asshole; sly. That’s the truth of the matter. But aren’t we all? We are either transparent or covertly nasty. We all have shadows in the sun. I hid from this fact for a long time; I could see the truth sparkling in your eye. A glimmer of yourself? I think we all have dark spots; even those held upon the pedestal of perfection. I stabbed your sister; but at least I looked her in the eye.
Deciphering code; having conversations between the lines that I uncoded during the silent hours of the night. We all are trying to tell each other something; politely. Every last hurtful word, I printed and wrote down. I didn’t hide in-between “he-said/she-said” conversations. Fights that could be proven and verified. My fingertips raged and I hit send. I do not regret anything; we both needed healing. Your mother died; mine didn’t. That’s what I needed to hear from you; that’s the bottom line, the unspoken. Mine married your father; and I spit on her living grave. She is a wonderful step mother. And with the jewels on her delicate fingers; ones that my father bought her -- she opened my private words. And read about my limited sex life narrated to Britney Spear’s Gimme more, gimme, gimme more. And with my father’s money, she paid for my pain with her signature. I kept my eyes open during those years; I picked my scabs so she could see the blood drip when I waltzed through the front door. “Oh the drama!” she says; as if I wasn’t a child. I just wanted her to hold me, but one cannot force arms to hug. She was dead, figuratively. My mother’s love felt illusionary; behind the smoke she was too busy giving Jesus a blowjob to recognize my tears. Christianity kills pain while suffocating the human experience -- this life isn’t fucking rainbows and unicorns. And it’s not supposed to be. Sunday school teaches an unrealistic heavenly utopia. Anger foamed out of my mouth; they said I had rabies. I guess, in some ways -- I did. I poisoned myself in order for her to wrap her arms around me. I was a child, I needed protection. I shot myself in the face trying to spite her; my head burst open, and I died. I went crazy. And the wool was still over her eyes. Jesus took the wheel of her life; and I am in my captain’s chair now. That white-washed middle eastern man was driving me off a cliff. Why did she approve of him taking my wheel?
In graduate school; my best friend's father died without warning. He called me: panic, shock, heartattack. I tried finding the right words to say -- how could I make this better? Once I tried co-signing a car to fix someone; what could I do that could help? Did he too need a therapist? Paying someone to fix grief? How absurd? How could the pain be eased? I asked, I questioned, I thought. And it dawned on me: it couldn’t. I learned that when he looked me straight in the eye; ”there is nothing anyone could do to help me -- so leave me the fuck alone” Dialouge exagerated for emphasis. He was fundamentally correct, what could anyone do? What could you say? What could Ana say? What could my mother say? What could my father tell me that could help the sting heal; bandages do not heal wounds. He spoke to my soul -- why was I trying so hard? I forgot my truth; I forgot who I was through the psychologist's chatter. Tell me experts -- tell me about myself. Define me, please -- give me a label to live up to; bipolar? Perhaps, it was simply my righteous indignation that began to ferment and smell. Purge the anger; be an asshold -- speak dammit. I am as sick as my secrets; just punch the girl who tried to murder you. Hock a loogie in her face. Before I learned civility, I used to scream ferociously. Why can I not fight like men do? I must be kind to your face; and bitch about you behind your back. Classy. I am not sure if I went mad in graduate school; or I found out I was sane the entire time. The power I said I didn’t have; I had. My tools were invisible and with me the entire time. The meek will inherit the Earth and I hope I take down an empire with my pen. That would be one hell of a virtual ride. You know, if you believe in the simulation theory of reality.
Maybe I am just fucking fine and everyone needs to leave me the fuck alone. And if I am an ass -- call me an ass. Diagnosing normal humanity, the consequences are endless. Let me stand up on my own two goddamn feet. All the help atrophied my legs. A bitch I once loved told me, “I buried you.” Ouch. Burn. I instead kept everyone alive, including her. Including you. I pretended that I did not change; keeping up this extroverted, disorganized charade. “I am the same, I am still fun” -- not institutionalized at all. Lie. I died that cold day in November. So did everyone else. And as the old corpses began to decay; my behavior began to smell. What was I holding onto? I was holding on a childhood that never existed; one that I wanted. Utopia. Why did God do this to me? I am god now; so why am I choosing this behavior? The best advice I ever got -- to bury my past; I had to burn my childhood diaries. And as they went up in smoke, I thought of you. It would have been fun though -- if I would have stayed.
I am aware of our differences. I guess, I just wanted to express some similarities. That said, my goodbye letters can be sent. And your eyes will still read these words; that pain can still be expressed or repressed. Breath still flows in and out. Longing after the living is confusing; I was just a child. Have mercy on me. I am sure we will meet up again, perhaps you’ll be a famous rockstar. Oh how your life is going to change; and I’ll see you at the top. Until then, I am going to keep climbing -- dropping all that excess baggage to get there. It’s the roaring ‘20s and I am dropping pennies in the pool. Make a wish. I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve blocked your number; I’ll be switching phones soon anyways. Maybe if we ever see each other again -- and if there is a need, we can exchange digits. I am not expecting a response, I do not need validation. This letter was from me to you, my muse. I hope you know, I’ve always loved you -- brother. I have a son now; it’s time for his childhood, not mine. Good luck. Remember, we don't make it out of this life alive -- aim for the stars.
Till the anvil drops,
