Two wasted weeks

I posted earlier about the “progress” I made sorting and binding up some of my dad’s old charts. The photos aren’t all that impressive because they aren’t – they are ONE wall of boxes. As you saw in the photos from earlier this week, the other three are jam packed.

Given the condition of the files I was bundling (so rotten the pages were not only unreadable, but impossible to separate from the folder they were in), I’d say we could easily just toss most of this stuff in with the normal recycling and no-one would be the wiser, but that’s not how the law works.

But that’s not why the 10-day sojourn was a failure. No, this boring, busy work (something Autistics like me are supposed to excel at) was just an unpleasant symptom of a much larger and far less pleasant problem.

I was tasked with that job since no-one else wanted it. Though it was supposed to a GROUP effort with my mom and both brothers setting a weekend aside to get this task done with as little hassle as possible… for them – they’re already in Pennsylvania. I’m in FLORIDA without a car or license so getting there is a LOT harder for me than it is them.

That weekend came and went without anything happening. Yes, I get it. Kids get sick, the car breaks down, a family member dies unexpectedly, but, just in case, I got a long, condescending lecture anyway when I asked my older brother if there was any other discussion for rescheduling the weekend.

“I am married with four kids and a full-time job… You on the other hand have none of these things. In fact, there is nothing stopping you from coming up here for three or four weeks and doing this on your own. You don’t need my ‘permission.’ Just do it. If you were a good son, you would volunteer to do this for mom’s sake. But you aren’t.”

I love that he used the word “IF,” but I told him it wasn’t a command performance – it was a question. JUST a question as “I understand that both of you have other things to do, but in order to make plans I have to know what they are first.”

“King of regurgitation”

What does that even mean? Seriously, I have no clue. So, I did what anyone else would do when they don’t understand something. I asked.

“Nice try, but your argument isn’t working on me. Oh, and pro-tip, capitalizing words in messages does not mean emphasis the way you think it does.”

There comes a point in all of my posts where I become the villain not the victim – and I suspect that’s exactly the kind of action he was hoping for when he sent it. Well, he got it, and I hated myself for losing my temper with him like that – that’s probably also what he wanted (that makes him the victim of MY abuse, see?)

“I had honestly forgotten about your little tiff. But I forgive you,” he replied. It’s noble, maybe this marks a thaw in relations. He then demands I both apologize to him and “take responsibility” for all the wrong deeds I did by asking simple questions and following up for clarification (yes, I told that to him in my reply).

In case you were wondering, he does not owe me an apology because his insults – both stated and implied – were figments of some sick “fantasy world” created by his lunatic brother, but my non-existent insults against him were real. Wait, what? Also, as you can imagine, it doesn’t get better from here – despite my asking him to STOP at least three times.

Clearly, he didn’t listen as he went off on a series of massively long texts that I honestly didn’t scroll up two or three screens to read in their entirety (the last one I didn’t even open, but the “preview” line in messenger was him telling me to “not message me again” which solved my problem, but I BLOCKED him anyway just to be safe). The last one that I did read said that to get back in his good graces and prove that I wasn’t “selfish, immature, and lazy” was to “prove me wrong. Go to Shamokin for three weeks and help mom with the files and anything else she wants you to do. Do that, and I’ll be forced to admit I was wrong.”

That’s how I ended up in Shamokin for two weeks, and I knew the second I picked up the rotting, mold covered box in the entry of the old office that he would say “you didn’t ‘prove me wrong.’ You proved me right as having to ‘prove me wrong’ is the very embodiment of ‘immaturity’ which is what I said you were. Nice try though.”

It’s also what I thought of with every folder I emptied and every stack I tied. Even looking at the two boxes of loosely bound files and the two crates of folders mom drove up to recycling, I didn’t feel pride. I felt shamed – ashamed of myself for falling for his trick and even more so for letting his bullying messages effect my work… which is the very definition of wasted time – especially since I knew darned well that what I did wouldn’t meet his standards anyway.

I came away from the week with one positive though, I cannot live my life to meet my brother’s approval – which I know he probably wouldn’t have given me anyway – but solely for my own. Trying to make HIM happy didn’t work, so I must focus on making ME happy…

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Categories: coal region, family, Pennsylvania | Leave a comment

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