I let him down. Badly.

Okay, so, I need to get this off my chest. It’s been eating at me for… God, almost ten years now. And it's about my brother, Mark. Mark was… is… the golden child. Smart, athletic, good-looking. Always had it easy, or so I thought. I was the screw-up. The one who couldn't keep a job, who flunked out of community college, who always seemed to be messing something up. I was jealous, okay? Plain and simple. And that jealousy poisoned everything I did around him.

Our Dad always pushed Mark. Always had high expectations. I think Dad saw himself in Mark, the potential he never reached. Me? I was a disappointment. I knew it, Dad knew it, probably the whole damn town knew it. Anyway, Mark got into State on a baseball scholarship. Big deal, right? Everyone was so proud. Except me. I was seething. Inside, I was a green monster.

The summer before he left, he got hurt. Badly hurt. Sliding into second, he wrecked his knee. Tore everything. Doctors said he’d be lucky to walk without a limp, never mind play baseball again. He was crushed. Absolutely devastated. His whole future, gone in a second. And what did I do? I felt… relieved. Part of me was actually happy. He wasn't perfect anymore. He was broken, just like me.

That’s the part that kills me. He needed me then. He needed his brother to be there for him, to help him through it. But I didn’t. I pulled away. I avoided him. I made excuses. I told myself he was better off with our parents, with his friends. But really, I just couldn't face him. I couldn't face his pain, because it made me feel… guilty. Guilty for feeling relieved, guilty for being jealous in the first place, guilty for being such a shitty brother.

He went into a dark place. Depression. Pills. He eventually pulled himself out of it, found a different path. He’s doing okay now, has a good job, a family. But I know, deep down, that I let him down when he needed me most. And I can’t ever take that back. I never told him how I felt, how I’d been so jealous and awful. I’m too ashamed. Maybe writing this is a start. Maybe it's not. I don't know. I just hope, somehow, he knows I’m sorry.