“But He Was The One You Really Liked”

“You are growing to be so beautiful. So thankful to call you my blood.” 

That was the comment my Brother left on Facebook for the featured image of baby Zoe, four years ago. I have not seen or spoken to my Brother in fours years.

And that was all I could think leaving my therapist’s office today. My fucking older brother. My older Brother who barely lives an hours drive from me…

My older Brother who told me to go to college. My older Brother with a Blink 182 tattoo. My older Brother who showed me, Flight of the Conchords. My older Brother, who is an irreparable alcoholic. My Brother who drinks while he drives. My Brother who told me my Dad isn’t SHIT. My Brother, Michael, who is lucky enough to not share blood with my Father. But was more so unfortunate to be the first toy of my Mother’s. Her first born. Her maid.

Michael wasn’t even brought up until right before I left my session today. It was all because she said, “But he was the one you really liked.” And I could feel the tears deep within myself in stasis. Then I left. I didn’t cry.

Most of my session was too bizarre for me to early even tackle explaining. I showed her pictures of my sociopath Father and the weapons he likes to make out of metal at work. That’s all I can say…and I can’t even say that.

Eventually, this led to my mentioning that my Sister doesn’t believe me, my Brother won’t talk to me and so fourth. And my Therapist replies, “that’s terrible,” to which I responded, “Yeah, it’s like my entire family is dead but they’re all alive also.”

And that’s when she said it. That’s when Emma said, “But he was the one you really liked.” And she was right.

My parents are child abusers, they’ve tried to kill me slowly and continue to do so. It’s like my parents have always been dead but worse. And with my Sister, she has become so empty and brainwashed and she just hurts and hates me me so much that it’s almost like she has another personality. The little girl I worked to hard to try and protect is twenty-five years old, lives with her Mom, shares a bank account with her and has the bedroom of a six year old girl. She’s a stranger.

“That’s terrible,” was just about Micheal. The rest, they’ve done a lot of diabolical shit to me. Things that require thought and manipulation. And they all think my Brother is an asshole.

At least he was human enough nice things to me about me and myself and my appearance without sexual connotation, envy, or malice (an ability the rest of my immediate family does not possess). That asshole who turned out to be kind of an asshole because of those monstrous people, who are assholes.

It’s terrible.

 

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