Once again I find myself in need of a proper salutation. I can think of nothing to open this with; no dear, no hello, no acknowledgement of you as a person whatsoever.
You suck. Completely.
I did promise myself that if we ever corresponded again, I’d bring up your last email. So here it is:
You’re so jealous and always have been! I’ve done nothing to deserve the constant trashing you have done to me over the years and I am finished. I KNOW I have done nothing wrong. Dad put me in charge of things because he knew he could rely on me and trust me to do the right thing. Nothing of what you say is true and you’d know it except you’re insanity and drug use has taken you to a place where you’re making up stories. I shoplifted a few times when I was 16. I don’t cheat on taxes, I follow the tax code and take every available step to lower my rate. I never stole anything from the house, in fact it was YOU who was living there and took all of Dad’s drawings, sketches, etc. without even giving D(*edited) or me an opportunity to keep one. When you were arrested for cocaine trafficking, it was ME who hired the best lawyer money could buy to keep you out of jail. I never was a drug dealer and never lied about any part of that. My idiot husband at the time was dealing, but not with my blessing! It is one of the many reasons I left him! If you were buying from him that’s YOUR responsibility not mine, nor is it my responsibility you got caught. I pity you. You could have done so much with your life instead of wasting it. You really do need professional help. I told you a long time ago; if you ever want help – I will be there. But until that day, please don’t contact me again.
Just pulling that up and putting it on this page sets my heart racing with anger. I want to do nothing more than pull this apart piece by piece and tell you where to shove it. This is what you sent out to all our aunts, uncles, and other extended family. I’ll never really know why you felt you had to do that, why once again you had to lash out beyond all reasonable thought. Sure, I pushed your buttons. You push me, I push back. That’s the way it’s always been between us. And you know what? From my perspective, it’s always been you pushing first.
If I was really able to step away from everything that winds me up, I’d say it’s you who have a mother issue with me. I can never grow up in your eyes; no matter how many cum laude degrees or top of the pile certifications I get, I never know anything in your eyes. I’m an idiot, a child who just doesn’t deserve to have her own opinion on anything. It’s your control factor, how you’ve always put me down and kept me ‘in my place’. Because every time I’ve disagreed with you, that’s how you’ve played it: it comes down to name calling and trying to make me believe that I’m a fool. A fool with a 151 IQ to your…what, 120? And just adding that in here sets you off, doesn’t it? Because, sister o’ mine, it’s you competing with me.
From an intellectual standpoint, I get it. You were the baby AND the only girl for 4 years until I came along. Then suddenly, there I was. I took your place as the baby, which might have been bad enough to make you lash out at me. But then I grew up: my intelligence was obvious by the age of 4 and I was at that real cute stage…just when you got to your ugly stage: you gained weight, your teeth became crooked and needed braces, and you wore thick, ugly glasses. I’ve seen the pictures; you were NOT a pretty girl right then. I was highly creative: by the time I was 10 I was performing with peers and older people letting me know they were bowled over by what I could do. You were in band and you did ok for what you did – but did you want to do more? Did you want to be more, perform more, and just not have the guts? Did that grind on you, too?
I know you were put ‘in charge’ of me a lot. Too much, in fact. Mom should never have left you in charge of me. You two had your own problems: don’t think I don’t remember hearing the two of you scream at the top of your lungs at each other. It happened, and it happened rather frequently in my memory. It’s what drove you out of the house. And I know Mom saw the mean side of you. I just don’t think she acknowledged HOW mean you actually are. You worked real hard to cover up that selfish side of you when she was alive. You had to move out early because you could no longer hold that illusion while under the same roof. And I helped to cover up that side of you, too. I didn’t tell the whole truth and outright lied – not to protect you, but to protect Mom & Dad. Because I thought/think you are a monster, and I didn’t want them to feel guilty over what shit you turned out to be.
You’re both responsible for a lot, and not really responsible at all. I get it. You were a kid raising a kid: and the fault for that stops with Mom & Dad, particularly Mom since she ruled the whole frigging house. In that respect, I get that you did the best you could. You were struggling with everything a kid struggles with, and it came out inappropriately aimed at me because (1) I was with you a lot and (2) it was safe to yell at me because I rarely fought back when I was little. In that respect, no, you’re not responsible. You ARE responsible for continuing your manipulative, nasty behavior into adulthood. You ARE responsible for refusing to take responsibility for all the crap you – YOU – put in my head that I’m still having problems with.
And frankly, I’m willing to own up to what I am. It’s not easy to talk to people about the possibility that I’m bipolar. Only depressives, manics, or other bipolars understand that. But your behavior is well outside the norm as well. I’m not going to diagnose you, but you’ve got a hell of a lot of problems you like to shove at other people. And you take a lot out on those around you – I’ve seen you do it to other people. I can only imagine what your current husband is going through; I saw what you did to your first one. You have never, in my memory, spoken frankly about something bothering you when it bothers you. You just lash out, blasting down anyone in your way. And later you come back under the guise of reconciliation, but it’s really just blaming the other person. You expect apologies from other people, but you don’t apologize for your own behavior. You project your issues, telling me I’m stupid and worthless while denying that’s the way you feel. I don’t even need to know you well to know these things: your continuing obesity from your teen years on tells me you’re not happy with yourself. You wear your unhappiness on your hips, thighs, and stomach for the world to see. And then you spend an inordinate amount of time making sure your hair and nails are perfect and that you’re dressed in the most up to date expensive fashions you can afford. You can’t dress up a pig and pretend it’s not a pig, and you know that somewhere inside of you. In my opinion, if you spent even one tenth of the time working on YOURSELF that you do working on your nails you’d be a much nicer person.
Maybe that’s my problem with you. I want to believe that you’re a nice person inside and just really screwed up. I don’t want to believe that my parents raised such a person as the one I perceive you to be: completely without morals or ethics whatsoever.
I also know your memory is fucked. I only learned THAT through South Park. There’s an episode where Cartman’s memory of an event is all scrambled because he really needs to see himself as important in every situation. It’s the only thing I can credit it to, other than early onset Alzheimers. I know everyone colors memories to suit them; it’s a built in thing in our brains. But you’re so far off from what happened it’s like you’ve experienced something completely different. I made sure to take notes during various times of my life and did my best to keep them as un-colored as possible. During Dad’s last illness I made notes every day, mostly about Dad’s condition: how well he slept, if he threw up his dinner, how much pain meds he took. I also took notes the day – may I point out, the ONE day – you gave me a break and watched Dad for a whole afternoon so I could get out. I wrote down what you said to Dad less than an hour after you said it. You’d become so wound up that when Dad began to talk about taking his own life with a shotgun you didn’t just tell him to do it. You told him you’d load the gun for him. To your own father. After one afternoon. I just can’t get past how mean that was. I can’t get my head around any excuse for you, and I’ve tried a lot. None has justified what you said to him. I hate you so much for that. For hurting him to that extent when he was really down just because YOU couldn’t handle it. I can think of no better example to show you your own bullying. Because you do that kind of thing all the time with me. ALL the time.
Here’s something I’ve never had the guts to tell you: Your first husband only married you to be close to me. He didn’t love you. He told me so in no uncertain terms. I’m guessing that came up in your marriage arguments. Or something close enough to it that you knew that on some level, even tho you didn’t want to admit it. And no, I did not encourage it nor seek it out. It was all him. But that’s just one more thing, isn’t it? One more reason to hate me, one more reason to hurt me. I know that.
This really isn’t doing me any good. I really want to take the high road, be understanding.
And I really would clap and laugh to watch you ripped apart and eaten alive by a horde of rampaging zombies. When you finally do die, I hope I hear about it. Because it’s definitely worth a rousing chorus of ‘Ding Dong the Witch is Dead’.
In the meantime, I want to remember to forget you.