Letters to the Editor

• Brothers

  [Read the article: My half-brother locked me in the closet and I think I'm to blame]
  [Read more letters about this article: Here]

  My older brother is a tough guy. He has a lot of feelings, but the ones it's easiest to justify to himself are anger and cynicism. He loves a few people. I'm one of them. He beat me up a lot when we were kids, from when I could walk until I caught up to him in size, when I was twelve or so. I don't remember much of it. There was plenty of other stuff going on, and what you know is what's normal. Different kinds of trauma, they can all be so normal. People say, "What do you mean, trauma? I'd have been grateful to be left in peace in a nice closet." It's really funny, and even sadder than it is funny. My brother has suffered a lot, and is still suffering, but he'll be the last to admit it. If a person is suffering, in my brother's view, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it is their own fault, for being stupid or careless, and they should just smarten up and tough it out. That's what he says. In deed, he is compassionate and generous to others. But not to himself. He's got a gun in his night-stand, so when the point comes when he can't endure himself for another day, bang. I'm currently visiting him for a few weeks. It used to be that I'd split-off when I saw him, with somewhat dire consequences. At this point, I don't sink so deep into the swamp. Writing helps. That's what I'm doing here.

  There's a lot of suffering in the world. It's kind of awful, really. I imagine that most people would like to see less suffering. One of the easiest solutions is The Moral Cure. That's what my brother turns to. It is used to skim the unworthy from the pool of sorrow, to sort out those who fail to be blameless, by some standard or another, in their own misfortune. It doesn't really cure anything, but acts as a potent analgesic for those that prescribe it, whether they are prescribing it to themselves or others. It helps if you wash it down with a beer. When you're done, there's hardly any suffering, but the world is full of jerks and fools.

  I don't mean to imply that my relationship with my brother was the scene of my core traumas, as perhaps it was for the LW. There were times when we were all we had. Those were sad circumstances, but I am grateful that we had each-other. There's a line from a Louise Bogan poem, "...those hours when hideous wounds are made, often in joy..."

  The real challenge for me, visiting my brother, is the sense that he is still alone, frightened and hurt. As we move towards fifty, the question is, will he shoot himself, or find a place to cry? I need to believe that he will find a place to cry, but I know that he may not. But maybe he will. I have always been the optimistic one.

  Thanks, all. Time for bed.

  Permalink Thursday, March 6, 2008 02:52 AM