phobic blunders

That’s my brother—it’s interesting to read his stuff, to hear his voice in his writing. I don’t hear his voice much otherwise. He hasn’t returned any of my calls since March or so . . . and prior to that, he never had much to say to me anyway. He’s pretty quiet—quieter than me, for sure, but I’ve heard that he’s not always like that. So why is he virtually mute when he’s around me?
Jaybird is seven years younger than I am, maybe that might have something to do with it. Our formative years occurred in different places and different times—even though we come from the exact same gene pool. I was born in Thailand and lived there until I was five. He was born and raised in Warren, just north of Detroit, a block and a half away from the notorious Eight Mile Road. That’s where I did most of my schooling, from Kindergarten through Eleventh Grade. Jaybird went to school in Warren and Sterling Heights (a more affluent suburb further north), but spent the last six years in Northern Michigan.
I had already graduated from high school when the family moved to a small town just north of Traverse City. Jay would spend his pre- and teen years in that tiny little hamlet on the shores of Lake Michigan. Our paths would diverge further at that point—I was at university down in East Lansing and he and my sister had to fend for themselves without me. Our sister is a very different story altogether, but I don’t have the time or patience to relate that one just now.
Some child psychologists say that the first five years of life are crucial because that’s when the personality becomes established. I can see that to a point, but I think that the ages six to eighteen are important for development as well. The early years teach us about our immediate surroundings, but later stages of development teach us how to live in the world at large. So what happened? How did we end up being so different? On the other hand, are we not that different at all?
My parents changed quite a bit during my childhood, largely due to their perceived failure with me. At the age of thirty-one, my dad found himself the father of a precocious five-year-old who didn’t speak a word of English. He had apparently gone back to Thailand to visit and decided to drop in on my mom.
Surprise!
My precociousness was due in large part to my grandmother spoiling me. My mom took off by the time I was six months old and my grandmother raised me until I met my father. At that point, I began living with my parents, which was an adjustment for all of us. The language barrier was certainly an issue, but I was always getting into stuff and not listening to either parent. This was the seventies, so my punishments were swift and brutal. My father remained a strict disciplinarian until my late teens, but I rebelled often. The worst crises came at about age thirteen then again at age sixteen—I ran away several times and started experimenting with drugs and alcohol.
To some extent, I think my father and I broke each other down—he was comparatively lenient with my brother after seeing what he had gone through with me. And me? I cracked under the pressure to be the perfect child. I could not, would not live up to my parent’s plans for me. I straightened up enough to graduate, was accepted into the state college, largely because of my scores on my achievement tests. However, no one pressured me to be or do anything from that point forward, which was fine with me.
My father passed on a learned trait to the both of us, one that embarrasses me to admit. We all have a social phobia- a fear of crowds and social events in general. I saw the signs in my father, but only realized it recently. He would storm out of awkward gatherings and situations—I thought it was due to anger issues, but it turns out the anger was in response to this phobia. My father had no real friends, other than one of his brothers. Jay and I both faced our own demons in college—skipping classes, quitting jobs, etc . . . because of the same thing. Looking back on my childhood, I now realize I had been suffering from this affliction in junior and senior high school.
The question boils down to this; is my brother suffering from an acute social phobia, or does he simply not like me? Or perhaps he is afraid of me? Afraid of me judging and rejecting him? Or are we so different (in his mind at least) that he simply doesn’t bother getting to know me?
It sounds like my brother has friends, which is good. I kind of have friends. My closest friends live in different time zones, different parts of the country, so there are only a few that I see on a regular basis. But I don’t hang out all that much at all. Maybe it’s my fear that keeps me from getting too close to anyone, I’m not really sure. What I do know is that my brother and I both enjoy writing, that we are both suffering some form of social phobia and that we have an awful lot in common. Perhaps our shared affliction and our responses to it are the glue we need to form a relationship. It just seems odd to me that two people, who are so similar, cannot communicate with one another.
It’s a terrible feeling to feel all alone when in the midst of a crowd.