omg, I am listening to the audiobook Educated by Tara Westover (I know I am super later to the party since this was like a blockbuster some years ago) and it was not what I expected tbh, I mean, some of it was, but I was laid flat on my back when Tara's mom started muscle-testing and doing energy work. Like, Michael Cara's voice, "my delusional mom also does that." I both can't stop listening and have to stop because I get unbelievably frustrated with her, I just want to shake Tara constantly and tell her to walk away, to let people help her, to stop going home.

Obviously, my desire to shake her is not rational and that's not how abuse works and I would never, but I don't think I've ever read a memoir that's evoked so much feeling from me that isn't like, sadness or fondness. The other thing is, I am frustrated with her to no end, but much more actually for real insane over the people leaving reviews like, "this could never happen! You can't survive without modern medicine or teach yourself algebra!!"

And it's like, first of all, unfortunately you can, stupid. It's just a shitty way to live and you're sick a lot more than everyone else, also it's amazing more people didn't die but that's life. Second of all, you can teach yourself things, stupid x2. Like, I am actually full-on hating the people that question whether her story is real, she is quiet transparent about being unsure of all her memories since memory is a malleable thing, but you CAN survive a lot of horrid stuff without medicine, the body is a miracle, you just shouldn't have to.

Vincent and Theo

The story of Vincent Van Gogh is one we repeat often, anonymity to superstardom upon death. A man's genius and missing ear in one, a disturbed and beautiful mind. Stories we imagine in the unfathomable realm of cursed and brilliant. A simplifying. Though, there is an another story, a simpler one still. Of two brothers.

(X)

Vincent and Theo tell not of something alien but ancient. Two brothers sending letters. A painting bought by no one else. A man supported by another 'till the end of his life and heartbreak, a breaking. That is not the part that stays with me.

(X)

Many stories of the sick focus on the caregivers, their frustrations, joys, knowledge of future grief. These leave a bitter taste in my mouth though I understand, I understand, I understand. They are the ones left. Useful till the end, I understand. The camera is focused on the caretaker, respected for their sacrifice, honored for their duty, devotion, dimensionality in their quieted resentment. I understand.

The letters between Theo and Vincent remind me of something else. A sickness, yes. Bedridden at times, no goal in sight. Yet, there is a disagreement in the bedrock of it. To be told someone cannot hold themselves up and hold them anyway. To hear they do not believe in themselves and place your faith in that empty space. To be told their vision of the world isn't valuable and be the first to say no. To disagree with usefulness. A useless man and the repetition of "not to me, not to me, not to me."

He was cursed, you say. But first he is blessed.

(X)

We repeat the story of Vincent and Theo, dying one right after the next. All tragedies however, tell a different story first. I will lose you, yes, but first I will speak. I think of the letters between Theo and Vincent.