Dear you,

Please don’t put me in the middle of this.  You’re breaking my heart and it’s really in a bunch of little fucking pieces right now anyway.  So I guess this is beyond breaking.  It’s grinding into powder, disintegrating, imploding.  None of this is going to be fixed or solved overnight, not after 35 years.  I love you and I am trying to have faith in you and that’s pretty hard, you know.  ‘Cause at the end of the day you’re batshit fucking crazy and a borderline sociopath and a mean drunk and you treat my mother like shit and you should probably be in jail and I probably shouldn’t even love you, but I can’t help it.  I can’t even explain how crazy this is making me feel (or, to be fair, how crazy I’m letting it make me feel).  I’m in about seventy pieces right now and I don’t know how much more of this I can take.  I guess I understand how she hasn’t left you even after the duct tape, the years of benders and driving into ditches, the day to day bullshit, the total lack of empathy, cutting the power to the trailer, and finally the gun thing.  Obviously I left as soon as I could, but I still answer the phone when you call, partly because I love you even though I don’t want to, and partly because I can count on two hands the number of times you’ve called me since I left home at 17, and partly because I know you don’t have anybody else to talk to about this shit right now.  Also partly because you are treating your promise to make this change as a personal promise to me, and I frankly never thought you gave enough of a shit about me or anybody else to ever try to change.  So maybe I answer the phone just because I still can’t believe this isn’t all some fucking joke, because I’m waiting to hear you say, “fuck this, never mind.”  But I can’t be the only grownup here. This is killing me.  And it’s killing my brother.  So please get it together and don’t make me do it.  I really do have too much to do and not enough time to do it in. And I’m not doing such a great job of taking care of my own self right now.