2016 - 04 - 24 “Birthdays”
Why did this take me so long to do again? Every time I thought about writing another post something pulled me away. The same pull that causes me to procrastinate on things that really need to be started sooner rather than later. But that’s okay, there’s more to talk about I suppose.
I had a meeting with a career councilor earlier this week. I have to say, she wasn’t entirely helpful, but I think I’m being a little unfair. What was I expecting? I’m not sure. One thing that I’m glad I learned was a website called “glassdoor” where people review their interviews at companies. This will help a lot when applying places, because some of the interview questions require complex answers that would need some prior research to answer properly. I think I’m going to stick with my plan on going more towards the IT side of computers, coding isn’t something I enjoy and I know I’m bad at it. It frustrates me, thought I do get frustrated easily. There is a game coming out I’m excited for. I’ve played a bit of the beta already. It was the most fun I’ve ever had with a game in a long time, and I still sometimes got frustrated. Often times in a way that indicates just how much I care about the game. If that makes any sense at all. This is all fluff talk though, I’m just biding my time to get to the part I didn’t really want to talk about.
I don’t love my family. It’s weird, I know I’m supposed to. There’s a saying that goes “blood is thicker than water”, which people interpreted as loving your family is absolutely essential. Yet the full saying is “the blood of the brotherhood is thicker than the water of the womb”, that would imply the people you choose to love carries much more weight than those you’re required to love. It’s not like a had a terrible childhood, but if I focus on the bad bits of it it will seem like it was. For every terrible event that happens there were many good things, and most of it all was filled with mediocrity. That’s not something you write about. I wanted to get that out of the way before going into the serious bit. So I’ll say it again, this wasn’t an all-consuming aspect of my childhood.
My brother abused me, bullied me, made me feel like dirt, stole from me, and made sure my self-esteem stayed as low as possible. I hated him, and this hate drove me. I’d think, as he pinned me to the ground and made me cry tears of agony and despair, that I’d be better than him. Maybe not now, but I had it all planned. He liked to pin me down until I couldn’t move at all. It was about control. In that moment he owned me, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. The physical pain and the bruises it left behind wasn’t as bad as that feeling of powerlessness. In that moment I knew that if he wanted to he could kill me. And often I thought he would, he had a dominating laughter that chilled me. He’d always mess with me in some way to keep me on my toes. A lot of the time it was simple things, like the flick of an ear or pinching my legs. When I was around him, no matter the environment, I was in a constant state of tension. My sophomore year of high school he finally left. At that moment I was at peace. At my dad’s house I had my own room. When he came back 6 months later he invaded that space. Often he’d go out partying and bring back a girl late at night, and kick me out so I’d have to sleep on the couch. Or he’d stay up all night watching TV in the room, despite the fact that I had classes early in the morning. Every night I’d ask him to turn it off, and every night he’d tell me to fuck off. But at least it was only for half the time, my mom had long-since kicked him out of the house. Later, my dad moved out of that house and got another, bigger, house with a room to accommodate my brother. It was of course the largest room, but that’s always how it had been. The eldest always got the best thing. It was a persistent theme throughout my childhood. I never understood it. It’s not like we had control over who was older. Being the youngest I always got, as my parents called it, “the short-end of the stick” in every scenario. I never understood it. Being the youngest made me feel like a reject.
Neither of my parents ever payed much attention to me. They often left me to my own devices. They know almost nothing about me. I don’t mean that in an angsty-teen way. I mean that in a more literal way, I’m a stranger to them. A random uber driver could learn about as much as my parents know with a 30-minute conversation in the car. By the time I left for college I had little respect for either of them. They already had their attention on my older siblings anyways. So I found it kind of ironic that my older siblings lives turned out a little rough. My brother is a homeless heroin addict, and my sister slaves away 12 hours a day hoping for a day off to smoke and party. And that’s why I was so angry when they started caring when my path was headed towards success. No, fuck you, you weren’t there for me when I was younger and wanted your support. Don’t you dare call me and ask how I’m doing. Why didn’t you ask me this when I was in a high school, or middle school. Or honestly, ANY time when I was LIVING in the same goddamn house. Now that I’m finally free from your grasp that’s when you start giving a shit? No, fuck you and stay out of my life. I’ve already made my own support group of friends and coworkers. And so this is where the title finally comes into play. Last week was my birthday, I tend to not make a big deal about it. My roommates and I have already established that a birthday shouldn’t be an excuse to go out and have fun. Let’s have fun whenever we feel like it. So for the most part it was like every other day aside from a “happy birthday” from my roommates and friends. And then my dad calls me the day after to wish me a happy birthday. I didn’t bother telling him it was the wrong day. I didn’t bother replying when he started talking about this new car he bought recently, or his new girlfriend, or his new house. Because this call wasn’t about wishing his son a happy birthday, it was about him keeping up with appearances that he was a good father. Maybe convincing himself that he had any presence in my life because all he ever favored was my older brother. He never intervened, never even reprimanded my brother no matter extreme the abuse got. It was right in front of him, but when I’d look at him with eyes that pleaded for help his gaze would slide away from me with shameful disgust. So the conversation was entirely one-sided. And then when he was done he bid his farewell. Even if I had wanted to respond with kind words I wouldn’t have had the chance to.
I’ll finish by saying that I don’t think I had a bad childhood. Putting down some bad parts of it on paper might make it seems like I was in constant pain, but it wasn’t like that. Most of my days were filled with school, activities, and friends. After rereading what I wrote I still feel like I didn’t portray it all in how I planned to, maybe because I’ve never bothered talking about it. Until next time.
