catharsiswritings

[catharsiswritings]

Sunflowers

How do you deal with a sister who has, as far as you know, never demonstrated sincere regret for any of her actions at any point in her life? This is someone who feels no remorse, no guilt, and if you try to respond to her bad behavior- her response is/was an indignant rage.

When she was younger she was downright sadistic. She's destroy things just to torment me, steal money from me without any remorse and when confronted she's sort of smile with flippant indifference and tell me to "fuck off" or worse, return my anger with her own hateful rage. She'd scream every epithet at me she could think of.

Despite today outwardly being very progressive, she is the only person in my family to ever called me a f**g**. She did it on many occasions, usually when mad at me. She would call things I like "gay" in a pejorative way. She would mock me, and she did this usually because she was just annoyed with me one way or the other. Maybe I was playing piano too loudly or too much, maybe I being an annoying 10 year old kid. Either way, those hateful words stuck with me. I've never forgotten them, or the mocking way she would say it. I can hear the words now, even in my (late?!) thirties.

That was, mind you, 25 years ago. The late 90s and early 2000s were different. Being gay was still incredibly taboo. People didn't talk about it openly in suburban America. Of course I was, and am gay, but I didn't really know it then. So when my sister spewed that vitriolic "Gaaaay!" or "F**G**!" at me, I was really burned into my mind. I don't think Liz was particularly homophobic as a teenager, she probably didn't care, but what Liz did want to do was hurt me. She delighted in trying to hurt me.

I'd play piano a lot as a kid. I'm sure it was annoying to her. Hell it'd be annoying to anyone in the house. My favorite composer was, and still is Debussy. I remember how she loved to mock me by saying "Debussy was gaaaaay", "Piano is gay". Again, I don't think she cared, she was just trying to get a rise out of me. But that was really mild. That was nothing. When she really showed her true colors was when she'd try to slam the piano keyboard cover down on my fingers. She tried to do that a couple of times until she actually hit my fingers one time (I didn't dodge it fast enough like I had the first few times). It hurt like hell and when I screamed at her she backed down and left. I think the only reason she left was because she was worried she'd get in trouble for actually hurting me. I was fine, the wooden keyboard cover had just bonked my fingers pretty badly, but it was blunt and not so heavy, so by itself it didn't cause any damage. Had she done what she had before, when was slam it closed with her arm, she could have probably broken my fingers.

The little gay boy I was, I loved gardening, and most of all I loved sunflowers. I loved how big almost tropical they seemed, and how massive their flowers were. I wanted nothing more than to grow rows and rows of giant sunflowers as a kid. I tried growing them a lot as a kid. The cool and rainy Seattle climate didn't really do them any favors and usually the slugs would get to them before they could establish. Every now and then though, they'd actually grow. I grew a row of them on the back fence. Some of them actually took off and bloomed. And then, right when they were starting to bloom, someone took scissors to them and cut their heads right off. I was devastated. This sensitive little gay boy cried. My sister blamed the neighbor girl Barbara. I was mad about it but part of me wondered if Barbara actually did it. I hardly knew her, why would she do that on someone else's property?

The next year it happened again. Cut down before I could ever see them bloom. That confirmed it, I knew it wasn't Barbara. It was Liz. Liz just wanted to see me cry again. Again, she just wanted to hurt me. I was angry, but I knew if I let her know it was her, she's react not with guilt, not with remorse, but with rage. I couldn't let her know I was angry, so I buried it, because if I let her know I was angry, she's make my life hell.

I didn't try growing sunflowers again until she moved out, and I never planted them with the same exuberance . After she moved out and before I went to college I was able to enjoy a couple of years of flowering sunflowers.

I understand that as developing children we all have varying levels of empathy and understanding for others. Usually kids are pretty self-centered and lack empathy when really young, and as I understand it, as their brains develop, so does their ability to understand other points of view and empathize for others. Some people never develop this. There's a fair number of people remain devoid of empathy their whole lives. Liz was in her teens when the above mentioned things happened.

I wonder often how much I'm like her. We share most of the same genes I figure. A few years ago she mentioned that her DNA test said she had the "warrior gene". Might I have the same borderline sociopathic tendencies that she does? I have to remind myself that there are lots of things I regret in life, people I have hurt and regret hurting, and mistakes that I wish I could undo. I also have empathy for the pain of other folks. But all the same, I try to keep this in my mind- don't be like her. Don't act like she does.

I own a house with my partner now. I'm trying to figure out a good place to plant some sunflowers next year.

[catharsiswritings]

Some nights my mind decides it needs to ruminate on what are the deep injustices I feel I've experienced in life. This is not helpful. Not even remotely helpful. It does nothing to cure any anger or regret that I feel for certain situations, towards certain people. All it does is gets me all wound up and frustrated and wide awake.

Books help, but they don't completely push the unwelcomed rumination away. What is absurd about all this is that it doesn't really seem to have any connection to what I've experienced that day. It just bubbles up from the depths of my lived experiences, and like a tar pit, just traps my brain in its mire until I force my way out (usually by getting out of bed and reading something on the couch). Late night herbal tea and a book seems to be the best non-pharmaceutical cure. Note: I am not above using melatonin when a book and tea doesn't work.

I'll be sitting there in bed, comfortable, warm, cozy, safe. physically in a different part of the world than where any of the injustices took place, thousands of miles away from anyone who committed or supported said injustices. I am surrounded by love and a warm house. And yet I'm angry and upset and unable to sleep. I always notice the silliness of it, staring up the ceiling in the dark, listening to nothing but the fan humming along quietly. I'm safe, I'm comfortable, I'm warm. I'm next to someone who loves me and whom I love. Live in the moment, as they say. Just stop thinking about these old injustices. Just...Move on

This rational self-coaching doesn't really help. My brain is hellbent on taking me to a completely different place. Back to the tar pit we go. Part of me wonders if writing it out might help. Organizing my thoughts, putting it out there.

Which brings me to this blog. I'm going to, on occasion, try to write my way out of the tar pit. Or at least, write out a few lines that I might be able to tie to solid ground, lines that might help pull me out of the muck...at least a little bit. I need to refresh my headspace.

This can be my Plan B when books and herbal tea don't work.