The Youngest

As are all the relationships that crisscross the ridges of the brokenness that is our family, theirs as brothers is a fumbling exercise of patience.  Or so I observe, without the Korean privilege of being either of the two sons in our fateful pool of four.

I've been racking my brains trying to remember the last time I had seen my youngest brother.  I come up blank over and over again.  He came up once with uhmmah, I think, but no one else seems to be able to confirm this and my memory's too hazy to pinpoint even the year.  The last time I can recall with confidence was his hyung's graduation.  In 2009 {+}.  That was Three.  Years.  Ago.  Could that be right?  That can't possibly be because that would mean three Thanksgivings.

       Three Christmases.
       Three birthdays of mine.
       Three of his.
       Three of my sister's.
       Three of my other brother's.

Because that makes for a lot of birthdays we didn't celebrate in each other's company.

That time three years ago, he was not well.  I hadn't seen him since he had moved back in with my parents.  When he wasn't stone silent on the couch with terse lips, he was screaming.  His anger put us all on edge.  He refused to eat the first day.  He said he didn't deserve to.  Eventually, he finally had some cheesecake.  Uhmmah smugly looked at me and said, "See what I have to put up with?"  She forcefully scolded him for ruining his hyung's college graduation.  This is how we do it, our family.  In useless circles.  The same ones.  

He's had his ups and downs since then, at least from what I heard through the grapevine.  But after seeing him this past weekend, I can say that he is still not well.  Able-bodied, he most certainly is.  Able-minded, not a hundred percent.  His world is filled with paranoid absolutes, with no room for logic or reason or perspective.  His persistence is unmatched by anyone I know.  Trying to hold a conversation with him is like a never-ending marathon of intersecting streams of consciousness.  It is alarming.  It is exhausting.  It is distressing.

This is the last post I wrote about this brother back in 2010, {+}.  Very little's changed.  I admit it: I've made little progress on managing this part of my life.  Somehow, this shameful lack of movement makes my love and concern for this sibling grow even deeper.  At the same time, with every brief family interaction like this past weekend's, my faith that he will be all right weakens just a tad more.

And so I guess this is where I start praying.  Not because prayer should be a last resort, but because there is no one I can comfortably talk to about this, at least not in a way where I don't feel like running off to some remote hill in the Alps.  And if there is comfort in whispering thoughts to God, whom I have not met, I suppose it's the very same reason why I feel safe sharing private thoughts here in this public space.  Writing openly about this sort of thing sure beats cautiously talking with someone peering into my eyes, someone whose thigh might be wedged next to mine or whose arm is just across the table.  I'll feel safe enough one day.  With the right person.  I hope.

At our childhood home.  Philadelphia.

8:01 pm.  Saturday.  2012.  23 June.