Older Brother Complex

I just want to tell you you hurt me

Painting: “A boy feeding his younger sister” by Helene Schjerfbeck. 1881. Oil on canvas

I don't know where to begin with this. I've written, deleted, and rewritten paragraphs in hopes they would capture what I'm feeling for you. Truth is, I can't even begin to grasp them. Sure, some are obvious, but most are difficult to comprehend, I'm sure you feel the same about me. I've known you my whole life, you have known me since you were three years old. Growing up together, sharing bunk beds, being read the same good night stories. I was wearing your hand-me-downs, listening to the same music as you, watching the same series on our old TV, following you step by step, trying to catch hold of the ghost that is my older brother.

I think already back then, even though I tried mirroring you, we were so profoundly different that you didn't know what to do with me. Still, through the things I picked up from you, we had some common interests; it may have been only sitting in silence listening to music, but to me, that was everything. A moment where you acknowledged my presence, accepted me as part of you. Besides our differences, I think you also didn't quite understand me, and sometimes even resented me because, as the second child, I got away with things you did not.

I remember the first time I met your friends. You celebrated your birthday shortly after you moved out, into your own space. Mum insisted you would invite me, you agreed reluctantly, you didn’t want me there, and I would find out why later. I talked to your friends, they were nice to me. They asked me how and from where I knew you, my brother, and I told them. They all fell silent. You never told your closest friends that you had a sister. It was on that evening that my heart broke and I started to yearn for my brother's affection, even more so than before. I learned you always tried to keep me a secret, for what reason I dare not think about.

We are too opposed to each other. You, a domestic father of two and husband, living in a small village, attending traditional gatherings, building your own home in an old farmhouse. I, a queer polyamorous woman living in the city, content with watching arthouse movies and sitting in smoked up bars drinking another wine, lighting another cigarette.

Still, when I sit tear-streaked alone in the darkness of my room, sometimes I think the one thing that would heal the broken pieces inside my fractured heart is a hug from you and telling me that you love your little sister. I lovingly call you Bruderherz, my brother-heart, and only once I wish you’d return this sentiment.
I know that time will never come, so I find solace in writing about you, or so I wish.

Thinking back on it, you never addressed me with adoration, you only ever called me by my name, annoyance clear as day in your voice, and even my name you misspelled in one of your postcards on Christmas four years ago, that I’m sure your wife dictated for you because you were never good with words. I am sure there is way more to unpack.

I think this can’t be healed by only writing about it. I seriously need therapy, and you do too.

You know, a few years back I talked to Mum about you, how I might be able to talk more deeply with you, about our feelings, and not just platitudes. It seems to me that you are so disconnected from yourself that you cannot even begin to think about me as a complex person. Mum told me she believes that you never got over her divorcing our Dad; if that holds true, then I can’t imagine what his death did to you.

I think I was too young to fully grasp the situation, too young to have formed a relationship with him. I wonder how you feel, if you ever worked through your pain, and I wish I could hug you and cry in unison with my dear brother-heart for the Dad we never had and got to know.

Every few years, when things become too much for me to handle and my mental health deteriorates, I imagine what my life would be like if I just disappeared, moved to a different country where no one would know me. Not that I have the resources to do so, but thinking about it somewhat satiates my escapism. I know Mum would hate the thought, I think she’s the only person in our family who ever really cared for me, I think you wouldn’t even notice. I could easily tell you I had other plans for our once-a-year meeting on Christmas, I’m sure you would not mind.

And I know I’m assuming and projecting feelings onto you, but over the last 28 years of my life, you have not once given me reason to think differently of you.
I’ve written this text over the last few days, every evening another paragraph, every evening cradling the crying little girl that is me, but instead of telling you this, I’ll post it here, so every person but you may read it.

Maybe in a decade or even later on, we can talk about it. I wholeheartedly wish for it.
Until then, Bruderherz.

I miss you.
I love you.

If you like my work, please consider buying me a coffee, ya girl thrives on caffeine! Thanks <3