For years, my brother would creep-read this diary (he probably still does) and tell Mom that I was getting drunk all the time and into accidents. Far from the truth, but a vengeful mind sees what they want to see. He also got Mom so worked up about my partner at the time, she rang me and said, This is the last time you'll ever hear my voice. I didn't hear from my parents for 3 years.

//

At my parents' house last September, I found a postcard from my brother, written to me from home while I was at university. He wrote how much he hated Dad and why, in shocking language. The postcard was among my father's papers, he must have found it among my own. I felt sorry for Dad all over again. Cheeks burning, I ripped it up, that dirty, disgraceful thing.

I think of every letter or diary entry I've ever written. Writing for the future (even if it was only a future me), I try to write only what I think deserves to be remembered. The initial thought or sentiment must be assessed vigorously, before given form and an afterlife. The postcard didn't deserve a place in the material archive of our life as a family, even if it's now a hell in my memory. It might have felt like truth for my brother, but it just feels callous and overbearing now.




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