I guess it’s time I finally wrote about this.
A week or two ago (I don’t know anymore…I’ve been losing track of time), I had this huge argument with my brother.
Now something happened and I had to reveal the reasons behind it and the fight itself to my mother. I know this pain is still real and lasting (sounds cheesy now that I read that but..) because I had this sob attack while I was forced to talk about it.
Let’s start with why my mom interrogated me about my current relationship with my brother.
Today was my test day for the ACT. I signed up with VHS as my testing location. Last time, I was at MDHS, but I chose not to test there again because I was…intimidated by it. The school was just so large, and I remember having trouble reading their map and finding my room even after I asked somebody.
So the second time around, I chose VHS, which is closer with less traffic anyway. The classroom I was in was very nice (new desks, new chairs, beautiful windows that formed one side of the wall). However, to be honest, the rest of the school is not. It’s the kind of school where you see graffiti on the walls, with the campus looking generally not very nice. It’s a fact that there are gangs and the area has been known for crimes. It’s not your best school environment, but I don’t want to make it sound like those scary alleys in the movies with gangstas lurking 24/7. Obviously, I had no problems and nobody else did either, and there are no newspaper headlines about deaths near VHS today. :roll:
My point is, VHS isn’t the best place and my mom was worried about me being there.
After I finished testing (came out around 1 PM), I turned my cell phone back on…only to find it nonfunctional because the two months were up and it was time to charge money back into it. Yes, my cell phone is this lame pre-paid phone I’ve had since 9th grade. However, I was really lucky because Jessica was in the same testing room I was in and came out with me. So I used her cell phone instead.
Me: “Dad, can you pick me up?”
Dad: “Um…I’m busy right now. I’ll call your brother for you.”
Dad: “He’s not picking up his cell phone. Just keep calling him until he picks up.”
Me: “What?? But… [sigh] Okay dad, I guess I’ll figure this out.”
I called my brother’s cell phone, but he didn’t pick up. I tried being resourceful by asking Jessica if I could go home with her and walk home from there. I didn’t mind walking…I just didn’t want to go walking home from VHS. Well, it was fine with her mom, so that was the plan. I got home safely before 2 PM.
Around 2 PM, my brother comes into the house, angry and telling me he circled VHS for 40 minutes looking for me. I had no idea he was picking me up. My dad said, “just keep calling until he picks up.” He didn’t tell me, “Okay, I left your brother a message and you should just keep calling and wait till he comes to get you.” So how was I supposed to know? I did the smartest thing I could do, and found a way to get home safely. “Calling my brother till he picks up” was something I did NOT want to do, especially when Jessica was the one with the working cell phone and would be leaving soon. I was not aware my brother knew he was supposed to pick me up.
After that little shindig, I watched some more of The Avatar (completely addicted to it by now), and took a nap. Obviously I could not go to the choir banquet if I didn’t even have a solid ride back home from testing. I woke up around 9 PM and went to my mom’s room to greet her (Besides this time and before school, I usually don’t see her). Well, instead of the nice greeting I was expecting, I was scolded.
Apparently my brother or my dad brought my mom into this. I had no idea my brother was picking me up, so therefore I did not call him to tell him I was home. Why would I do that? I don’t call my brother whenever I get home, just to inform him. I would only do that if he were expecting me, and I did not know he was expecting me. Thus, he called my dad asking me where I was, and my dad didn’t know either. Obviously, this spells disaster, especially if you tell my mom. Apparently she was worried sick while she was at work.
All this time, you would think, “Well why the hell didn’t they just call YOUR cell phone to see where you are?”
In case you forgot, my cell phone—dead. Croaked. Bit the dust. Pushed daisies. And it’s kind of funny, in a sad way. I have begged my mom for a new cell phone to replace this cruddy pre-paid phone for years. It’s times like these where the “Oh, Virgin Mobile won’t let you use your phone until you’ve added more money” thing is *very* inconvenient. Of course, my mom countered with, “Why didn’t you tell me to get you a new phone then?” I *have* been…for years, mother. So now, finally, I am getting my own cell phone. I tried to be humble and told her to get whatever plan she wanted and I would work with it. That means I might not even be able to talk much (not that I talk to many people anyway), but at least now I won’t have to worry about those stupid “top-up now please!” messages and worry about being charged 25 cents for every minute.
You would think that is the end of my very long story, but it goes beyond that. If you haven’t noticed, the title is “Brother – A Lost Relationship” and I haven’t touched on that at all.
My mom interrogated me about my relationship with my brother, because through this ordeal it was obvious that we were on a bad basis with each other. It really had nothing to do with the situation (them thinking I had been kidnapped or shot), but I guess my mom was pretty smart because she knew something else was wrong and wanted to dig deeper while she had the opportunity.
Naturally, she scolded me again. Scolded me for raising my voice, “disrespecting my elder” (that would be my brother), etc. because she had heard my brother’s side of the story about the reason why we’re not talking to each other. I have a nasty habit of letting emotions get the better of me and yelling, I’ll give you that. But I also had my side of the story to tell. My brother told her his side, which made me seem like the loud-mouthed brat, but he didn’t tell my side of it. At all.
Two weeks ago (I decided that it was around two weeks ago now), it was past 1 AM on a school night and I was working on my personal statement for the UC application. I asked my brother to help me do some last editing. While we were sitting together, reading over and fixing my essay, my brother did what he almost always does. He asked and talked about other things. Controversial things that I knew were bound to get us arguing. So I asked him to leave it alone and not bother with that direction because it was bound to end up in disaster. He didn’t listen, of course, like always.
I said some rude things, I admit fully. I said things like, “Maybe you’re not fit to edit my essay.” After I looked back upon it, I realized it had a much more negative connotation than I had intended. I didn’t mean it like that. What I had meant to say was, “If you’re tired then maybe you shouldn’t edit my essay.” That would have been so much better. I did apologize, but that was only after I realized my mistake.
I realized it too late, though. My brother called me “bitchy” and…it hurt my feelings more than ever. I know it sounds really stupid. I know a lot of siblings call each other worse names, but our relationship was always different and my train of thinking is a lot more sensitive and deep. Those words, they hurt me so much. Although we were getting into arguments all the time, we never used profane words. I would never, EVER in my life, call my brother a “bastard” or any other profane word. Ever. For him to call me a “bitch” was extremely painful. At that moment, I broke into sudden tears, shut my computer off, thanked him for editing some of my essay, and rushed to my room. He came in after me, shortly, apologizing.
It wasn’t the apology I wanted. He said he was sorry for calling me a bitch. He was not sorry for thinking it and he still meant it. He was just sorry for saying it to me and hurting my feelings. That was worse than not saying anything to me at all. It was a pointless apology. There was no point in his apology if he still thought I was “bitch” anyway.
At this point, it was 2 AM. And I still had a load of homework I had not touched yet. So I asked him to leave me alone so I could finish it in peace. As always, he was stubborn and would not leave. I told him to go away and that Mom and Dad were sleeping in the next room. But he persisted, and I was extremely upset at the time. I ended up yelling at him, doing what I could to get him to leave my room. The fact that he was “sorry for calling me a bitch but still thought I was one anyway” fueled my fury and I wanted him out of my sight. I couldn’t stand looking at him and I couldn’t stand hearing any more of his words. He left, finally, but only after my insane screaming had driven him away.
He is the type of guy who *bam* pursues it, *bam* goes after it *bam* beats the crap out of it until he thinks he is done. I’m the type of girl who wants some time alone to think about it. If I don’t get that time to think, I end up voicing my emotions exactly as they are shooting out of me. Thus, my bad temperament and hasty words. We don’t belong together. We don’t work together. It just doesn’t work.
Afterwards, it was past 2 AM and I was left to do my homework. I remember crying uncontrollably while trying to do Cornell Notes. I knew my parents could hear me from the other room, but there was nowhere else to go. I tried doing my Physics homework as the tears dropped over my book and stained the pages (sorry Librarian, but they aren’t noticeable anymore at least).
Why did it hurt this much? I guess it would be hard for someone living in today’s society to understand why this hurt me so much. Most people throw around profane words like holiday cards. I’m used to it, yes. But within my family, it is like an unspoken rule. I adore this because it is a sign of respect. For my brother to think I am a “bitch” and to call me one… that hurts more than he’ll ever know. We argue endlessly, it’s true, but we always had enough respect for each other to not resort to using profane words. I’ve never even had the urge to call him a “bitch” or a “bastard” etc. I’ve had bad feelings, but they never went that far. He was the one who went that far, though. The respect between us is broken. The truce I thought we had is not there. I cannot see the same and gentle brother I had once respected anymore, and now I know how he feels about me. Things have changed and things will never be the same.
I finally went to bed, and when I woke up in the morning… ugh. My eyes. They were extremely swollen. My left eyelid was extra fat. It looked like I had an eye infection. I struggled to keep my eyelids open. I felt like missing school, but I knew I couldn’t miss the work. I went to school with probably the worst expression on my face and eyes that wanted to close. Mrs. Harkins passed me by in the English hallway and said I didn’t look too good. I tried smiling, but I think it came out badly. Mr. Wilson was his usual weird self, and tried high-fiving everyone who walked through his door and Taylor said hi to me, but the most I could get out of myself was an extremely weak “hi” as I kept my eyes glued to the floor.
My mom scolded me again. “Why didn’t you come to me if you had this problem?”
“Simple, Mom. I’m almost eighteen years old and I need to deal with these things on my own.”
Mom: “But I’m your mother. And this is my house. You need to tell me these things when they happen between you and your brother.”
“That may be true but…what happens when you’re not here anymore, Mom? I can’t come running to you with all of my problems anymore.”
What good would it have done anyway? I wonder. The relationship between my brother and me cannot be controlled by someone else, even if she is our mother.
I also explained to her the fact that he just doesn’t know when to leave things alone. I explained how I was the type of person who needed time alone, and he was the type of person who is impulsive and needed to settle things right then and there. He would never leave me alone when I needed it. This fact made it inevitable for conflict.
My mother then tried to explain my brother’s actions and said some weird things. “Should I kick him out of the house then? He’s a 26 year old man, he’s living with his family, and he has no job. He must feel stressed. He’s crazy, he acts crazy sometimes.”
It sounded weird, but I think I knew what she was saying. The fact that he’s 26 and still doing these things is making him act the way he does. Anyway, I said, “No, don’t kick him out. It’s not like I can’t live with him in the house. I just don’t want to talk to him.”
Then my mom asked, “So how is this going to be? You just won’t talk to each other forever?”
“No. I can talk to him. I can talk to him, but I will never be able to look at him the same way. It will never be the same.”
I think it was then when my mom finally understood. I don’t know. I don’t really know where things will go from here. I don’t think my brother and I will be able to reconcile. Even if we end up talking again, I can never see him with respect again. I lost just about all of my respect for him. He is not the same brother I once loved adoringly. We’ve both grown apart. Extremely apart. We are two very different people. It hurts so much.