“Oh, brothers! I don’t care for brothers. My elder brother won’t die, and my younger brothers never seem to do anything else…” – Oscar Wilde, the Picture of Dorian Gray.

In our country, it seems to me that the sanctity of family – parents, brothers, sisters, children, aunts and uncles –  has been elevated almost to a cult status, a national myth.

Family comes first, it is above all else, one can never escape family or get away from it, or its obligations. The language of family in books, movies, on TV reminds me of the way North Koreans talk about their Supreme and Eternal leaders.

Family is everything, and can never be denied. The faith of the Sopranos is our faith. Movies rarely end with anybody walking away from family, no matter how fraught or poisonous.

Every movie, song or story about families ends the same way.

That, as is perhaps obvious, was not my story. And my story is not over yet, not when it comes to family and brothers.

My brother is 12 years older than I am, he left our house when my sister and I were very young. He  was lucky to escape, and he never looked back. I didn’t see him much at all for 20 years or so, and I was long gone by then.

Fairly or not, I always felt he abandoned my sister and I, he ran away from us, we were never welcome in his new home, nor did he ever come to see how we were. I read all those stories about brothers rushing to help one another, it was just a fable to me.

My brother never wanted to know, he had his own life, his own family.

That was his right of course, but it widened the already wide and growing gap between us. Once, my sister and I ran away to his house – we were always running away – and we stood outside for the longest time knocking on his door. But nobody answered.

The thing is, I barely knew my brother, it wasn’t like in the movies or on TV. He barely knew me, we never saw one another. He took me horseback riding once when I was very young.

From time to time, we might see one another at family dinners, or while visiting my parents, and we always said we should get together, but we never did.

We had absolutely nothing in common, and neither one of us ever quite got the other.

He married several times, had several children, several different careers. He had a radio show, and when a book of mine came out, he would always book me on the show, and seemed proud of me, but otherwise, we never spoke. People who heard us thought we were best buddies.

We connected when he got divorced and was frightened, and he called me and I helped him, I gave him some money. I didn’t see him for many years after that, he came to Maria and my wedding.

Then it was my turn to get divorced, and I needed help and he helped me, he sent me money to help us move into our current home, I was broke and needed help. I was so grateful not only for the money, but to have a brother at last. We will stand together, he told me, we will get through this.

We didn’t stand together through my troubles. My brother stopped speaking to me for several years. I think he was worried I would ask for more money.  The one time we each seemed to be brothers to one another yielded nothing but more hurt and suspicion and more distance.

He had a very different story to tell about our family than I did, and he didn’t want to hear mine. His story made me crazy. Perhaps each of our stories was true, at least to us.

He was passing through the area four or five years ago, and Maria and I met him and his wife for dinner.

My brother began talking about my mother and father at this dinner, and I got nauseous and got sick and had to stay in the bathroom for much of the meal. In the car, I felt better and I told Maria I couldn’t imagine what had happened, I got sick even before the food had come.

She looked at  me incredulously and said, don’t you know? It was talking to your brother. There was just too much for us to overcome.

When I had my open heart surgery, my  brother was the only person I knew in the world who never called or visited me. Later on, he said he didn’t  have my number and  besides, he said he followed my progress on Facebook and the blog. I understand why he didn’t call, I think it was just too difficult for him.

I had begun to embrace radical acceptance, and rather than be judging him I decided to let him go, and with him the idea of having a brother. He owed me nothing.  I had no right to judge him.

I have made my own family now, and it is a loving and caring one, I could never go back. My brother and I have danced this  dance again and again in my life, and we just kept swirling around.  I can’t dance anymore. Reality is everything to me.

My brother started messaging me recently, he says he wants me in his life, but I don’t wish to be in his life. He was upset with me.

He would only talk about this in a text message, a form I hate for having important conversations. The messages got heated, there was a lot of feeling in them, and I blurted out what had happened to me. Now do you understand?

But he didn’t, saying only that perhaps one day we could talk about it.

I realized he has become the kind of connection I have been writing about, someone who only knows me by my books or blog or Facebook posts from the blog. He called me his wonderful talented baby brother who he has always loved deeply but who has not wanted a relationship with him and he said he didn’t know why.

I understand now that he will never know why. And I am done with trying to tell him, it’s really not my place.

No more dancing. The Dalai Llama says what really matters is how well you learn to let go.

And what also matters is that I need to take care of myself, I need to protect myself. My brother is not good for me, and that means almost certainly that I am not good for him.

I think my brother is angry with me once more, it was clear from his messages, and disappointed when I told him I can’t be in his life. I respect the power and meaning of family, but I also respect the different reality that exists for so many people – me, Maria, others that we know.

I don’t know what my brother believes, I don’t know him any better than he knows me. As I write this, I feel the old anger and resentment swell up in me, and even in my writing, and that is not who I wish to be or how I want to write. I will do both of us the favor of staying out of his life.

I don’t hold all of the truth and wisdom in my pocket.

But I believe getting away from my family saved my life and even exchanging messages with him is very painful for me. I was up all night re-living it all, stomach churching, sweating and shaking.

My brother and I are not a part of the band of brothers. Myths are not always true, not always something to live by.