Life, as we were growing up, was always a contest for you. You needed to win, no matter what. Cheating at every game. Changing the rules in your favour. Blaming me for your mistakes. Telling on me for any misdemeanour you deemed me guilty of.
Everything was a competition – I was always the competition. You taunted me. Humiliated me. You kept me insecure. You resented me and I could never figure out how to please you.
I was a sensitive child. Our parents were supportive and present, but they were never good at handling my sensitivity. Never understanding of, or open to emotions. My tears were a nuisance to them and I was treated like a crybaby. No one cared why I cried, but everyone demanded that I stop.
You kept me in tears.
Your jealousy got it into your head that our parents spoiled me. That I was getting special treatment behind your back, when in fact being the middle child I got the least attention from our parents and all my stuff consisted of your worn hand-me-downs. I remember when I got a brand-new pedal car for my birthday, I shouted joyfully for you to come and check it out. I simply couldn’t believe it was mine, because I never got new things.
Being a couple of years older than me, you were always faster and stronger. We never came to blows, because you would in all likelihood have annihilated me. You took a strange pride in that. In your mind you were a kind person, who should be shown gratitude for not punching me in the face. As if not beating me was a sacrifice for you.
The only time we came to a scuffle was when I was about 14 and you gave me a bag with some leftover crisps. I gladly accepted and ate a few, only to find you’d left a monumental gob in the bag. That time my tears turned into pure, concentrated rage and I couldn’t stop myself from attacking you physically – despite the low odds of me winning the fight.
For years I resented you. For all of it. For the emotional scars and insecurities you’d successfully cultivated in me. I wanted nothing to do with you. I borderline hated you, and for a long time we only spoke occasionally, when family get-togethers required. Even though we got along pretty well, sooner or later you’d make it clear who was the bigger brother. I couldn’t relax in your company. I couldn’t trust you.
My wife asked me why I never confronted you. I told her that when I’d needed the restitution, you’d never have given it. A confrontation would only have caused an irreparable rift between us. Now we’re older I understand that your behaviour was a symptom of your self-doubt and that pushing me down kept you afloat.
We were brought up in an emotionally inhibited family. We did not have bad parents, but lacked emotional guidance. However, when I became ill, mentally worn out after years of insecurity, lack of self-worth and performance anxiety you were the first family member calling to ask how things were.
You have changed. You have grown, become the big brother, genuinely interested in my wellbeing. This gives us hope. While we can never have that perfect childhood, we can still have a future friendship. Risking that by bringing up past quarrels, that we probably remember differently, would be a bitter, stupid move.
I’d rather let bygones be bygones. I am in greater need of a friend than an estranged brother.
Anonymous
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