Tears dry on their own
Sep. 26th, 2024 12:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootYesterday I spoke with my brother in a long conversation that was funny and bizarre and sad together. The Home Office offered him a job a while back, he said, but he didn't take it as he feared becoming a person of interest to the Russians or the Chinese.
'They come for the people you care about, ' he said, 'I couldn't put you or Mum or [partner] through that.'
I'd have been fine, but Mum, his partner... well, OK. Still, I wish he had taken the job if he wanted it. He is quite proud of the algorithms he created. Then we moved on to reproduction, and he asked me if I ever regretted not having children. I told him the truth, that I knew from very early on what I did and didn't want. Reasons turned up that enhanced and justified that feeling, but I don't recall a time I thought about this subject with anything other than a determination not to be a parent.
'Was it because of Mum and Dad?' He asked.
Of course it was. But there was also a reluctance at core. Bro wanted family and children and he spoke about the women who had offered to have babies with him. He would have been a good dad.
'Was it wrong that I didn't want to have sex with a woman?' He asked.
'Not wrong, no. You are allowed not to want sex with a woman. It's just not particularly helpful if you want kids.'
'Too late now' he said, and a little later, burst into tears. But it wasn't about children, it was about Dad. 'I think about him every day,' he said. 'I want to say that I understand. I want to say, 'you're wrong but I get where you're coming from.' And now I never will. We'll never have that conversation.'
I comforted him as best I could. What to say? How did I get past it? I mythologised the man in writing, which always helps me: myths don't have to be true per se though they may convey touches of truth. On the one hand he was a radiant, warm, optimistic, funny, brave and very hard-working man full of stories and a touch of magic straight out of Ireland and Scotland. He greatly encouraged my reading and writing and from that grew myself. But he was also immensely damaged, from a family with a history of abandonment, he was utterly self absorbed, roaring in temper and very cruel. My mother's issues were repeatedly triggered by his insane abuse and gaslighting antics. Then when she became ill and a very real physical danger to me specifically, he was nowhere to be seen. He abandoned just as he had been abandoned. When he was around, he was a sneering torment to my brother, until my brother responded by being a sneering torment back. We were utterly miserable, and it didn't need to be that way. He had terrible times behind him but he also had power and agency and a family who adored him. It was his choice to trash that.
The scales are heaped on both sides, I do understand. Two opposing ideas can both be true. But perhaps because his betrayals of me were early or just by dint of being a bit less gentle than the rest of the family, I toughened up. My mother, thank god, barely remembers the terrible times we went through and I nourish those feelings. She can't take anything else. But my brother...
We moved on eventually and laughed again. Much later, when we had waffled about enough absurd nonsense to chase away the past, and I could feel Bro's voice return to normal, we ended the conversation. It was OK.
I found a book of word puzzles (gifted from 'Breast Friends and Family') and finished a few. Then I looked up and spoke into the air.
'What a mess you made, eh Dad?'
After that, I picked up the pen again and carried on. It wouldn't have mattered if he turned up in ectoplasmic horror/splendour at that point. Amy was right: tears dry on their own.
'They come for the people you care about, ' he said, 'I couldn't put you or Mum or [partner] through that.'
I'd have been fine, but Mum, his partner... well, OK. Still, I wish he had taken the job if he wanted it. He is quite proud of the algorithms he created. Then we moved on to reproduction, and he asked me if I ever regretted not having children. I told him the truth, that I knew from very early on what I did and didn't want. Reasons turned up that enhanced and justified that feeling, but I don't recall a time I thought about this subject with anything other than a determination not to be a parent.
'Was it because of Mum and Dad?' He asked.
Of course it was. But there was also a reluctance at core. Bro wanted family and children and he spoke about the women who had offered to have babies with him. He would have been a good dad.
'Was it wrong that I didn't want to have sex with a woman?' He asked.
'Not wrong, no. You are allowed not to want sex with a woman. It's just not particularly helpful if you want kids.'
'Too late now' he said, and a little later, burst into tears. But it wasn't about children, it was about Dad. 'I think about him every day,' he said. 'I want to say that I understand. I want to say, 'you're wrong but I get where you're coming from.' And now I never will. We'll never have that conversation.'
I comforted him as best I could. What to say? How did I get past it? I mythologised the man in writing, which always helps me: myths don't have to be true per se though they may convey touches of truth. On the one hand he was a radiant, warm, optimistic, funny, brave and very hard-working man full of stories and a touch of magic straight out of Ireland and Scotland. He greatly encouraged my reading and writing and from that grew myself. But he was also immensely damaged, from a family with a history of abandonment, he was utterly self absorbed, roaring in temper and very cruel. My mother's issues were repeatedly triggered by his insane abuse and gaslighting antics. Then when she became ill and a very real physical danger to me specifically, he was nowhere to be seen. He abandoned just as he had been abandoned. When he was around, he was a sneering torment to my brother, until my brother responded by being a sneering torment back. We were utterly miserable, and it didn't need to be that way. He had terrible times behind him but he also had power and agency and a family who adored him. It was his choice to trash that.
The scales are heaped on both sides, I do understand. Two opposing ideas can both be true. But perhaps because his betrayals of me were early or just by dint of being a bit less gentle than the rest of the family, I toughened up. My mother, thank god, barely remembers the terrible times we went through and I nourish those feelings. She can't take anything else. But my brother...
We moved on eventually and laughed again. Much later, when we had waffled about enough absurd nonsense to chase away the past, and I could feel Bro's voice return to normal, we ended the conversation. It was OK.
I found a book of word puzzles (gifted from 'Breast Friends and Family') and finished a few. Then I looked up and spoke into the air.
'What a mess you made, eh Dad?'
After that, I picked up the pen again and carried on. It wouldn't have mattered if he turned up in ectoplasmic horror/splendour at that point. Amy was right: tears dry on their own.
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Date: 2024-09-28 01:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-09-29 07:20 am (UTC)