The fact that i write you the kind of letter hinged into my notebook pains me for two reasons. The first being since it makes up the individual leaves of my journal, it will never leave my possession, nor will you see it. The second one being that most of the letters of this nature tend to abide the first reason as a result of my need to get out some rather thick and bottled-up feelings. These are the kind of pure, visceral thoughts that their target should never witness.
Last weekend or so was the year commemoration of your insane tirade at me. I mark the occasion because that experience jarred me (and continues to), but also because my mind frequently falls on you. For all i know, you continue to take bogglingly-long walks, still only scarf one massive meal a day, and still work your mindless yet stressful job at the Bank. Your hair must still be short, and perhaps you've by now submitted your manuscript to several agents. Without knowing more, and with only that accidental voicemail that you didn't even know you were leaving to go off of, i'd say you've gotten on with your life and perhaps did what you needed to do that June evening a year ago (assuming you needed to "go on" with anything).
Sometimes i think about us reconciling, how that might go. What would i say? Would we do it over the phone? Of course, it would have to come from you, because it was you who expressed a contempt in me and a disinterest in continuing our friendship. I've thought a great deal about that. The old Brandon would be too ashamed to reach out, assuming that i would be filled with nothing but disgust for your outburst (which isn't true). Perhaps the new Brandon (the one that spawned that incredibly gyrating spasm) doesn't feel that way, and in some ways i'm glad for that to be the case. Perhaps the new Brandon stands up for himself more (or at all - no more the doormat) asserts his interests and needs, actually believes he's worth something (and i'm not talking about that rageful, megalomaniac who claimed that BRANDON was the POWER of 10,000 sons - give me a break).
I've said goodbye to enough people in my life to know that i need to let go of any notion we might reconcile. The new Brandon shares something with the old Brandon - his severe mental illness. You aren't well. You haven't been for a very long time. I will not excuse your disgusting vitriol and accusations that you splattered all over me by attaching it to the floatation device that is your mental handicap. No. You were there, in full consciousness when you erupted like a rabid, infected dog (yes, you even had foam coming out of your mouth). You are responsible for what you said and how you said it. But what you can't master, what the sickness you have uses to imprison you are your feelings. It controls and dictates your harmful paranoia. It might even give you the confidence or permission to speak to me like you did, but in no uncertain way do you get to avoid responsibility for the wounds you slashed into me.
In fact, if the opportunity to reconcile ever crossed our paths, that would be my solitary requirement before we proceeded. You'd have to apologize and be genuinely sorry for the hurt and pain your idiotic screams caused. You little, fucking paranoid, piece of shit. The way you hole yourself up in your pathetic sick world and judge everyone with the same high-browed impunity you loathe in everyone else is the height of hypocrisy. You spoke to me with such vicious contempt that revealed how selfish and egocentric you truly are. To take some overworked phrase that you clearly edited over and over in your notebooks, finetuning it until it had the most poetic impact - that anything i've ever done for you came only after i "touched my balls" - and shove it out with your verbal vomit was pitiful and fake (seriously, who rants about the person closest to them and the one who has cared the most for them?). But worse, it was dead, fucking wrong, and you know it.
I may have my bad, sordid side (we all do, you prick). I may not be the most judicious person or tolerant. I may manipulate people (oh, and calling your ONLY friend to tell him your house had been broken into, but martyring yourself by turning down his offer of safe, secure shelter for the night is MANIPULATION). But, what i do know is my generosity and role with you. I've never had a brother. The level of loyalty and dedication i felt for you was higher than even my own parents. You trampled that loyalty and you pissed, shit and came all over that dedication.
I'm not ignorant. I acknowledge the bad deeds i'd directed at you, but none of them measure even close to the vapid bile you flung at me out of your twisted, gnarled, ugly mouth. And now, as i think about it, you knew this would be my reaction when you were launching into me. They were a smokescreen to cover what you really wanted - a way out. You'd wanted to evacuate from my life and couldn't figure out how. You blew up at me as a way to blast your exit out. It's taken me long enough to figure that out. Too long, actually. In my customary persistence (or cowardice), i kept trying to think of a way to mediate the situation, which must've boggled you based on how ugly you were that afternoon. You probably thought you'd set the bungalow ablaze so fantastically that no one inside survived.
It was i who called a week later because i said we needed to talk. You declared that you didn't think we did. It was i who obsessed about you, like you were a lover who'd tossed me aside, even going as far to get you a birthday present, then use the occasion to attempt another reconciliation. You came into the restaurant just like my first love did when i'd asked her to come and give "us" a second chance. You practically strutted.
You don't want to reconcile, that's clear in your actions last June. It's only taken this long for me to realize that. You aren't struggling the same way i am, you'd already seen your way out. All you needed was to light the match, and drop it.
