A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-Three-Hundred-And-Two

I went to my brother's this evening for dinner and we ended up going out shopping, then cooking a spaghetti dinner.  It is always strange to be there, to do such things.  I am working to try and feel normal about it, but there is always a discomfort that can't be overcome.  I don't think my brother understands that I am putting in an effort to accept this by going there, or recognizes how much it can strain me to spend time there.  I don't know that it matters so much, except that I suspect he thinks my spending time there has a different meaning, will take it as proof that it is a positive he is here, that I am enjoying his presence, when it is more complicated than that.  I do love him and want to spend time with him, and I want to be able to enjoy going to his home and all of it, but he has hurt me in ways I am not even certain he is able to understand.  I want to make it better, which is why I am putting in the effort, but I often feel he thinks he is putting in a huge effort when I feel like it is really not that way.  I know that is my perspective, and maybe he has legitimate reasons to feel he is doing more.  I can't know, in the end.  I am sure that it takes a lot for him to deal with me, at times, from his perspective, and I can understand that.  Even so, it feels as if that is not anything he didn't know when he chose this.

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