OFV #2

OFV.
OFV #1.

A delusion is generally regarded by the psychiatric community as a false belief held so tightly that no amount of reason, illustration, education, or confrontation can convince the individual of its falsity. Most delusions are possible and plausible but quite unlikely to actually occur or exist. It is possible and plausable - but unlikely - for the CIA to tap one's phone lines, for one's spouse to be unfaithful, or for one's parent to secretly plotting one's murder. Even with verification that belief is false - a sweep of the phones, 24/7 surveillance of the spouse - the belief will not change.


My brother is delusional.

Yes, he still believes that he was fired from every single job because every single boss just hated him. And he still believes that he only failed his classes because every single teacher - in four different schools - conspired to make him miserable and/or hated him. But the primary delusion has always been that I have hated his guts forever and do everything possible to destroy any chance of happiness or success.

I've accepted that. To give him some credit, it is actually rather convenient for me and my family: I live more than 300 miles away, rarely visit, and limit visits to 3 days. (I love my family and I love them best from a distance.) The other possible targets would be my parents or my sister. He still lives with my parents and my sister lives 5 minutes away. It is peaceful for everyone to me to be delusion A#1. And I don't take it personally.

And, just to be clear, here is the reality: I have barely spoken a single word to my brother other than "nice to see you" when I arrive and depart and holiday greetings as appropriate for 10 years. I do not give self-help tips. Heck, I don't even offer to give advice because I know how it will be received. Offers to edit his school papers, introduce him to friends in the music industry (he is a musician), and to hang up flyers for his new band in my city all go through my mother. When I was younger, I had no clue why he hated me so much and I offered little peace offerings like cigarettes to a 15 year old and $20 if he made me a mix CD that I already had. I have spent more than 10 years wracking my brain, trying to figure out just what exactly I did. My parents have no clue either. I've just accepted that sometimes some people do irrational things, and that you can't take that kind of stuff personally.

My mother, sister, and I drove up to their vacation home 2 hours north on Christmas Eve with my brother to drive up later and my father early on Christmas Morning. My brother arrived
very late on Christmas Eve when the rest of us were sleeping with a flat tire. He later claimed it blew out just as he approached the entrance to the neighborhood. I took one look at the tire before he got up and thought to myself, "that looks more like he hit something, hard." I kept quiet and, in any case, I wasn't certain. Just to be clear, I don't think there is anything wrong or bad about hitting something - I went through 4 bumpers in 1 year because my, those telephone poles are sneaky! - but I was concerned about damage that would make the car dangerous to operate. Later I learned that my father had the exact same thought, noted tire tracks in fresh snow that veered off the road into a sharp curb-type stone thing, and only brought it up due to the risk the hit damaged more than just the tire. More on that to come...

Regardless of how it happened, I thanked God for giving him tire problems so close to the house. A blow-out on the highway, after all, is extremely dangerous - especially that night's icy highways. The vacation house is in a rural area, with iffy cell phone reception. When we were finally able to rouse him awake late Christmas Day, I remarked how lucky he was to have blown out so close to the house, how scary it must have been, and how he was a very good driver for keeping the car steady after it blew, and how he was a very very good driver for managing to not hit anything after it blew...unlike me, who likely would have panicked and spent the night in a ditch sucking my thumb. No passive-aggression, just a little admiration and self-depreciation.

"Fuck you. What the fuck do you know?"

Ah, the first "fuck you" of the visit. I briefly debated making a private drinking game of "fuck you" but realized that would put me in the hospital with a stomach pump before desert. Before the entree. Possibly before the appetizer, but certainly no earlier than the bottom of the bread basket. I think.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," I replied with a smile and in a calm, even tone.

"FUCK. YOU."

And I ducked my head behind a newspaper so my poor mother wouldn't see that I had a little something in my eye.

I quickly pulled myself together. And, once in bed, I wept. For my brother, who has been so sick for so long. For my parents, who have lived with him for so long that none of this particularly fazes them. And for the sad truth that none of this is going to change.