Make no mistake, even the act of doing nothing in the physical sense does bring with it a tremendous amount of stress, which for me, I absorb like a sponge, and the result is additional pain and stiffness as well as mental exhaustion and emotional depression.
So here we are, a smidge over two weeks from when the Sheriffs put a lock on the door to my brother's house.
If I am this exhausted, I do not know how my sister keeps going, even as desperate as she is to ensure two things: 1. That our brother does not end up homeless; and 2. That our brother does not end up living at her house (to keep from being homeless). I'm sure that to scratch beyond the surface of her helping our brother (and hopefully helping prevent him from having a cardiac event), she's also operating from a point of self-interest too.
All of this could have been avoided. I keep thinking of that Woody Woodpecker episode, "If Woody had gone to the police, none of this would have happened." If my brother made smarter choices, none of this would have happened. If he wasn't too trusting, or didn't marry Voldemort with a vagina, none of this would have happened.
And yet, my god. He is worse than both of my parents combined.
New Discovery: He is a hoarder. Like he needs an intervention. He needs psychological counseling. He should be on the t.v. show Hoarders THAT LEVEL HOARDER. This, of course, will be used against him on the complaint of divorce.
Question: If you were about to be homeless--if your house were on fire, what would you grab? Clothing? Meds? Photographs? Important papers? Nope! Not this dipshit. He insists on boxing up his library of music CDs. I know how overwhelming it is to be in that very spot--because in 1998, I was there, and I believe I had less time to come up with an emergency/transitional plan for my life.
My input or advice hasn't been solicited. My help is not wanted. So I'm staying out of this. Yet, despite being a bystander, it is disgusting (among other adjectives) to bear witness to this.
When your life is in upheaval, you no longer have long term goals. Everything else is suspended, until you can catch your breath. You first lock down your finances, cut off points of access to your funds so the other person won't bleed you dry in the interim. You set up a post office box. You take advantage of every single moment the other person is not in the house, so you can (as calm as you can) take an inventory of what you might need for your immediate survival (we call this your "A" stuff).
You then line up a depository of sorts, whether it is a storage unit or an alternate site (or better yet, the place that will be your transitional home) and start ferrying your stuff there while the other mate is not at home.
You gather up all your important papers, your tax rebates, every document you need, titles to your cars, deeds to your home, birth certificates; everything.
Not him. Suggestions have been made by others, and he's not absorbing shit. Either that, or he is hearing the suggestions, and then becomes the eunuch-ified personification of Blanche DuBois, by relying on the kindness of (strangers) others to do the heavy lifting.
Case in point:
My sister, brother-in-law, niece, and a few friends of my sister's were at my brother's house to help box up what they can. My brother-in-law went into my brother's bedroom and was repulsed by the mess, the stink, and the dust. My brother apparently has hyperhydrosis, so everything that touches him is permeated with his sweat. And his bedroom was filthy, and appeared as if it had never been dusted--EVER.
My sister loaded up a truck she borrowed from work, and managed to drive that a half hour back to mom's, many "treasures" of which my brother couldn't wait to pilfer and abscond home--are making their way back to our mother's house.
My sister's boss, allegedly, is planning on buying mom's house to "flip," and my brother will be able to stay at the house in the interim (possibly 1-2 months) until the sale goes through. Hopefully that will be enough time for him to get a handle on things. My educated guess would be a resounding NO. He's going to get comfortable, TOO comfortable (Denial is a helluva thing!), and then that will be another problem to get him out of a house which will then be owned by my sister's boss.
So, my sister drove that truck back to mom's, where our uncle and our Viking Warrior Aunt with the Stage IV breast cancer (with mets) is helping unload the truck. Where is the Dipshit? Shamelessly, out having a leisurely dinner... WITH THE YENTABEAST.
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