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It's funny how time can play itself out over and over again. And ironic? tragic? that sometimes these repetitions only occur because the players of the piece are aware of their past.
Out of we two, I am not the favoured one. My mother and I are quite unlike - in temperament, in interests, in desires, in expression. My brother, however, has always been a more recognisable chip off the block. As siblings we are not close - there have always been too many years between us, we lived for only a brief time in the 'family' home together, and as adults we are both too private to ever become more of a unit.
Please don't get me wrong - I am fond of my brother, and I wish him well. I enjoy his company and help him out when I can. But in part because things have never been reconciled between myself and my mother, I find myself frequently nursing feeling of jealousy and resentment over their closeness and her preference for him. And it is tiresome - feeling overlooked while he must never be inconvenienced, prickling in my black fleece from the undulating criticism that he will never feel.
I do not shirk from my own role or failings - I have spent most of my life feeling overwhelmed and aimless, wrestled weakly and unsuccessfully with toxic mental health, and sabotaged my few chances with foolish decisions, or indecisions. I have not always been the parent I should have been. If I were my mother I would not feel proud either.
My brother, by far the more beautiful of us, has in comparison been a good, solid person from childhood, hard-working and intelligent, who has been unlucky at times and has made the occasional mistake (but who wouldn't have?), or so it appears to be from my mother's interpretation of his life so far. In my darker moods I growl sullenly about the love, support and familial faith he has been surrounded by while I tripped and slid through life without such comforts, choosing blind, clueless, fiery independence over the cold acceptance of rejection.
My mother, herself the least favourite, outshone by her brother, lives through days clouded by a lifetime of injustices that, with both her parents now gone, cannot be comfortably resolved (if such an outcome is at all possible...?) These adversities, many and varied, rear their heads with depressing regularity in conversation. Strange, then that their iteration is so incomprehensible to her.
This week I have wasted too many idle hours fuming over a what was probably just a(nother) minor slight. I have run over a thousand imaginary scenarios where I spoke out, honestly, calmly, furiously, gently - none of which will ever become a reality. What actually happened was that I implied mild irritation at the time that I immediately regretted, later backtracked over, backhandedly apologised for, and excused with a catalogue of earlier mishaps and misfortunes. All of these reactions irritated me almost as the root incident.
On Tuesday, having resolved to talk about completely another matter during T I instead blurted out a river of grievances that started with the silly thing at the weekend and ended with me realising as I ranted a number of things... 1) Decent and concerned as she is, my mother has found her part as a parent frequently uncomfortable and difficult to play. 2) She is unlikely to change now whatever choices I make or actions I take. 3) Noticing and voicing points one and two is not wrong; accepting them may be key to my healing process. 4) Many of my mother's opinions of me and my life decisions stem from not knowing the truth about certain things. As I do not want to enlighten her, I must accept that these inaccuracies have become, for her at least, truths, and to remind myself that this is the an unavoidable consequence.
I have sat looking at this draft for days now. Should I publish it or consign it to drafts forever? I feel the content is petty, and probably a dull repetition of earlier forum posts... I find myself unable to recall whether I have said these words a million times or simply thought them. And am I 100% certain that no family member will ever read this, and (shudder) recognise me as the author? Deep down I know that these recent events are largely irrelevant - the root is that I am still scarred that when I called her for help, she doubted me, and instead of rushing to save me (does this really only happen in fairy stories?), she made my cry for help an inconvenience, and helping me a risk to my brother. I am bitter, and thoroughly ashamed that I cannot allow her this single mistake, and humiliated that we have to plough on with this jumbled and awkward history between us.
Out of we two, I am not the favoured one. My mother and I are quite unlike - in temperament, in interests, in desires, in expression. My brother, however, has always been a more recognisable chip off the block. As siblings we are not close - there have always been too many years between us, we lived for only a brief time in the 'family' home together, and as adults we are both too private to ever become more of a unit.
Please don't get me wrong - I am fond of my brother, and I wish him well. I enjoy his company and help him out when I can. But in part because things have never been reconciled between myself and my mother, I find myself frequently nursing feeling of jealousy and resentment over their closeness and her preference for him. And it is tiresome - feeling overlooked while he must never be inconvenienced, prickling in my black fleece from the undulating criticism that he will never feel.
I do not shirk from my own role or failings - I have spent most of my life feeling overwhelmed and aimless, wrestled weakly and unsuccessfully with toxic mental health, and sabotaged my few chances with foolish decisions, or indecisions. I have not always been the parent I should have been. If I were my mother I would not feel proud either.
My brother, by far the more beautiful of us, has in comparison been a good, solid person from childhood, hard-working and intelligent, who has been unlucky at times and has made the occasional mistake (but who wouldn't have?), or so it appears to be from my mother's interpretation of his life so far. In my darker moods I growl sullenly about the love, support and familial faith he has been surrounded by while I tripped and slid through life without such comforts, choosing blind, clueless, fiery independence over the cold acceptance of rejection.
My mother, herself the least favourite, outshone by her brother, lives through days clouded by a lifetime of injustices that, with both her parents now gone, cannot be comfortably resolved (if such an outcome is at all possible...?) These adversities, many and varied, rear their heads with depressing regularity in conversation. Strange, then that their iteration is so incomprehensible to her.
This week I have wasted too many idle hours fuming over a what was probably just a(nother) minor slight. I have run over a thousand imaginary scenarios where I spoke out, honestly, calmly, furiously, gently - none of which will ever become a reality. What actually happened was that I implied mild irritation at the time that I immediately regretted, later backtracked over, backhandedly apologised for, and excused with a catalogue of earlier mishaps and misfortunes. All of these reactions irritated me almost as the root incident.
On Tuesday, having resolved to talk about completely another matter during T I instead blurted out a river of grievances that started with the silly thing at the weekend and ended with me realising as I ranted a number of things... 1) Decent and concerned as she is, my mother has found her part as a parent frequently uncomfortable and difficult to play. 2) She is unlikely to change now whatever choices I make or actions I take. 3) Noticing and voicing points one and two is not wrong; accepting them may be key to my healing process. 4) Many of my mother's opinions of me and my life decisions stem from not knowing the truth about certain things. As I do not want to enlighten her, I must accept that these inaccuracies have become, for her at least, truths, and to remind myself that this is the an unavoidable consequence.
I have sat looking at this draft for days now. Should I publish it or consign it to drafts forever? I feel the content is petty, and probably a dull repetition of earlier forum posts... I find myself unable to recall whether I have said these words a million times or simply thought them. And am I 100% certain that no family member will ever read this, and (shudder) recognise me as the author? Deep down I know that these recent events are largely irrelevant - the root is that I am still scarred that when I called her for help, she doubted me, and instead of rushing to save me (does this really only happen in fairy stories?), she made my cry for help an inconvenience, and helping me a risk to my brother. I am bitter, and thoroughly ashamed that I cannot allow her this single mistake, and humiliated that we have to plough on with this jumbled and awkward history between us.
Tags: therapy, family, black sheep, favouritism
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