Family Ties
By: Martha Patterson
As kids, my middle brother and I fought all the time. It wasn’t really his fault – I was just his pesky little sister. And it wasn’t exactly my fault, either. I suppose it was just the same sibling rivalry that happens in any family. I’ve heard about it enough from friends and relatives. We weren’t, probably, too different from lots of brothers and sisters – always getting on each other’s nerves. And maybe my anxiety about our fractious relationship was an early sign of a mental health issue I developed later in life – schizoaffective disorder, characterized by sporadic delusional thinking, neurotic behavior, and psychosis.
When I was ten, my brother and I had a fight on a car trip. It depressed me so much that by the time we got to our grandparents’ farmhouse – we were on vacation – I felt like walking out into one of the fields and blowing my brains out. I wanted so much for my brother to like me – and there was no way, at our ages then, that he could feel that way. I was too aggravating to him.
When he and I became teenagers, though, we became friends, and we are now, even when we disagree. We’re always apologizing to each other for “bad behavior” to each other on the phone. The first time I ever smoked pot was when he turned me onto it. I was clueless about even soft drugs, and fell asleep, and he only said later with a smile that that happens to lots of people their first time.
I told my brother recently that, like me, he should have been in the arts, because he’s a dreamer. His teachers said he spent a lot of time looking out the window. All creative people dream and imagine a lot – I did, too. I kept a lot of childish fantasies to myself, and saved pictures from magazines showing the life I wanted to have some day. And I read fairy tales. When I grew up I pursued a career in the entertainment business.
An acting teacher I had once said, “You should all remember, in this class, that everyone is insecure.” It’s true; no matter your age, how much success you have, how much money you make, or what a great parent you think you were, there’s always something to feel neurotic about. Maybe my middle brother shares that trait with me, even though we have what would by anyone’s standards be called good lives. My schizoaffective disorder contributes to my insecurities and self-doubt, and has caused me and my family considerable grief. I did attempt suicide in my 30s, a wrenching experience that left me with physical scars, because I cut my arteries open.
Of course, I’m hardly about to blow my brains out today, if that long-ago fight with my brother could actually have had that result. Thank God he and I get along now, and I have meds to sustain me throughout adulthood. My brother said the other day, “You were a good actress. You just didn’t get picked.” For a moment, he made me feel like a million bucks, because I thought I’d lost so much by giving up performing and leaving New York. He himself could have been a successful silversmith or stained glass expert, or a whiz at car repair. He did all of those things for a while – he’s skilled at working with his hands, and he encourages my own creativity.
Years ago, I read J.D. Salinger’s stories about a family, and one of them was the novella “Franny & Zooey.” In it, a brother tells his distressed sister why her attempts at an acting career mean something and are valuable. She’s full of doubt and self-recrimination, as I sometimes am about my steadily growing writing career. But, similar to those siblings, my own brother is assuaging when I’m faced with rejection from publishers, and celebrates with me when my work does get into print. Mostly, my brother and family have gotten me through the more awful moments of my life with positivity.
Not long ago in a magazine I read a little questionnaire: do you think,
a) Life is short and easy
b) Life is short and hard
c) Life is long and easy
d) Life is long and hard
I don’t know how seriously one should take a magazine quiz like that, but I decided, “Life is long and hard.” We never know how much time we have left, and I’m trying not to waste mine. I’m now the age my mother was when she died. And most of my life is behind me. I’ve survived a suicide attempt, had many jobs, rewarding and not, and known lots of people who’ve long since disappeared from my world. Circumstances and fellow travelers change all the time. And much that’s unexpected and destructive happens; those things can be heartbreaking. But I feel as if my three brothers travel the road with me, through thick or thin, in good health and bad, just like the successful marriages I respect. As my mother sometimes quoted about feeling sad, which she did occasionally, “things always look better in the morning.”
Today, especially considering my mental health issues, life seems like a combination of tenuousness and contentment. But, knowing my brothers as well as I do, optimism for what lies ahead lives always in my heart and brain.
Martha Patterson’s 27-story collection “Small Acts of Magic” was published by Finishing Line Press in 2021, and her poetry collection “Luna at Dawn — 23 poems” was published by Bottlecap Press in 2025. Her work has also been published in more than 20 anthologies and journals, and her plays have been produced in 21 states and eight countries. She has two degrees in Theatre, from Mount Holyoke College and Emerson College, and lives in Boston, Massachusetts. She loves being surrounded by her books, radio, and laptop.