I think it’s time I expand on my brother and why I still suffer from PTSD.  He was a sweet child but he never got any approval from my father. That’s all he ever wanted was for my dad to encourage him, be proud of him, love him. Well, that’s all so sugary sweet it makes my teeth hurt. But, unfortunately the boy was always cut down every chance my dad got. You don’t cut down a 4 year old boy who wants his father’s approval. You don’t give him a 1.5 on a scale of 1-5 even if he wasn’t performing at his best. That’s just cruel. See, my brother and grew up in an extremely emotionally and verbally abusive neglectful environment. Dad would violently verbally abuse us. He wasn’t too physically abusive. I remember the last day he hit me. I ran up to my room and he ran after he had a belt in his hand and I just looked straight into his eyes and pleaded for mercy with that look. And, he just put the belt down and walked away. I was always told what I was doing wasn’t “the right way”. Everything I did was wrong. Now, I didn’t let that scar me as much as my it did my brother because since I was a wee toddler I didn’t want anything to do with my dad. I secretly knew he was scarred and I avoided him as much as I possibly could. I was the quiet one who was always playing in her imaginary safe world in her room, her safe room. My brother on the other hand, must have just been a glutton for punishment. He thought my dad was some kind of saint. He was an abusive, neglectful, childish, alcoholic, poor for excuse for a father or a man. Just because he fought in a war did not make him a man.  So, my brother’s sweet  phase started to wear off when we moved to a new house. We lived in the nice little suburbia neighborhood. But, this was no suburbia inside these walls. My brother started acting out around 14 I’d say, you know stupid little petty criminally deviant behavior. But then out of nowhere he decides he wants to target me. Looking back on it, I think it was his way of projecting his daddy issues onto me. It just started simply, calling me fat. Which I had already had enough bullying at school. Then, he just became downright invasive. He had no sense of boundaries. I started locking my door because I started to fear him. Fear that he would hurt me. So, it started with the psychological torture which I am still fucked up from until this day. He would just make his way into my room any chance he got. It didn’t matter if I locked the door, he’d just pick the lock with a hanger. It didn’t matter how much I screamed and yelled and cried and pleaded for him to just leave me alone. He was always there. Then he’d just walk by and pretend he was gonna strike me. He did this over and over I can’t imagine how many times. But there were other times when he actually did hit me. One time he smacked my leg so hard there was imprint there for a week. He punched in my head so hard that it lacerated my scalp. I never provoked any of it. I never wanted any of it. I just wished to God he’d stop one day.  Eventually, my dad had to put extra security measures in the house. I.E. my bedroom door handle. He bought a handle where I had my own separate key to open it and I could lock when I left and he couldn’t in. I thought maybe I had found peace. Nope. Why would the story end there? He’d pound and pound and pound on my door until I’d eventually go into hysterics. Crying fits so intense I couldn’t breathing, screaming so loud I became hoarse. Punching anything or throwing anything around me. I eventually started hurting myself. He pushed me to that point. I was so emotionally unstable because I had a hard time at school. I was bullied, harassed, laughed at, mocked. I was an undiagnosed mental case and they didn’t fucking care. Nobody cared. Nobody noticed I had a learning disorder. Nobody noticed how emotionally disturbed. Yet, I’d have to get up and face school, then come home and be tortured all over again. This turned me from such a sweet kindhearted person to someone who harbored a hatred so dark so scary  so angry that I was afraid of myself.  He was the one who got the attention but it was all negative attention. I suffered in silence. That’s how learned to cope. It got so bad for me my freshman year that I had to get to lunch early and eat alone in the MRDD room to avoid further lunchroom embarrassment. I grew darker and angrier. I would listen to songs about murder all day long with my headphones on. I didn’t have a clue what was going on with me. I had to go to truancy court because I feared school so I wanted to stay home when nobody was here, a few hours of peace a day. That’s all I wanted.  Well, I could go on with this torture and pain story forever. But, who wants to read all that? This whole time my parents were neglecting our needs, ignoring our cries, gambling, shopping, eating. That’s what they did. I can’t even tell you how hard it was to get my mom’s attention for even 5 seconds. I mean, wouldn’t any self respecting parent realize that something might be wrong when their daughter is crying hysterically in her bed wanting everything to just stop? I would have noticed. I would have asked. I would have sought out professional help. But, that’d just be too darn, selfless, wouldn’t it? Anyway, that’s just part of my fun romp as an adolescent.  I think you get the picture. Anyway, I eventually had to seek out my own mental health because I was scared I might do something to hurt myself or others. First diagnosis, Bipolar with ADHD. I still don’t know if I am bipolar. But, when I think back to that rage I felt in my teen years, it might be true. I instantly accepted the ADHD, everything made sense. I was like oh, so you mean I’m not stupid? My teachers tell my I am, my grades tell I am, my parents tell my I am. My dad even laughs at my inability to do math that is higher than a 7th grade level. I had a fucking learning disorder with math asshole! It’s like dyslexia and it does affect adhd children it’s more rare. Dyscalculia. I find it somewhat fascinating myself. My brother is schizophrenic. That explains his rage, when he’d talk to himself all the time, rock back forth in the bathroom with a vacant stare.  That’s why he had no sense of boundaries because he doesn’t understand what that means. He’s calmer now. He laughs to himself a lot more now than he used to. He’ll just laugh and mumble. He still talks to himself in the mirror. But, he is no longer violent. However, I am not healed from those wounds. He doesn’t understand why I don’t like being touched. Why I don’t like patted on the head. But I know why. I clearly see. I didn’t mean for this to go on so long. I just needed to vent the anger and let it go. Writing let’s it go. We could have been two exceptional kids had we had responsible ADULT parents.


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