What if I forgive myself? What if I’m not sorry? What if I did the right thing, and still it didn’t matter? What if I told you I don’t like my brother and sister? You would think of me as the bad guy, this is a truth we are not allowed to say out loud. I didn’t use the word hate, there’s no hating here. This isn’t a rant from a sixteen year-old. I have sat with this feeling for many years, repressed it, denied it. There’s the simple truth that there is no relationship. And looking back at my life, there never has been. You could blame the age difference, but I don’t want to place blame on anyone. I simply can’t lie anymore, so cast me as the villain. I wish I could lie, but holding onto a lie eats the inside of my stomach up. Do I want to be estranged from them? Are we already estranged? There’s nothing to fix. Try again. I don’t want too. Is that selfish? Maybe. Is this being written in anger? No, I’m not even angry. I’ve been angry before with them, but I settled that with myself on my terms. And I cried tonight, a little bit, thinking about the fact that I don’t care. I’m looking at pictures of us, younger, on my wall, trying to feel a connection. The memory that says stop. You do care. You’re suppose to care, but I just don’t. My tears weren’t tears of sadness, but of relief. For I’ve never really admitted this, for fear that I would burn in hell. Maybe now I really will, but this is my truth. And the truth is a bitch that’s hard to swallow, but when you do swallow it, you feel a fearlessness that can’t be duplicated by any other action.
