Happy Brat-Be-Gone Day!

My most frequent interaction with my brother growing up was holding the door shut while he tried to push his way into my room, having flown into yet another narcissistic rage episode.

How it often went down was he would attack me, I would tell him to quit it, he'd attack me again and get angry, I'd try to lock myself in my room, and his ability to immediately revise the situation in his head as my fault would throw him into a screaming, throwing-his-body-against-my-door and picking the lock tantrum, trying to get one more blow in.

Then, if mom or dad could be assed to intervene (dad's form of intervention was slapping us and blaming us both when he acted up), he'd make up lies about how I started it. Invariably, whether or not the lies were proven false, the three holiest and wisest members of the family- mom, dad, and brat- would agreed I needed to be a 'better brother' to someone who made it his life's mission to make my life miserable.

He knew he was the favorite and he abused it. He knew what he was doing was wrong and he enjoyed it. Mom, even to this day, excuses his behavior as 'mental issues'. That he wasn't in control of his actions, and I that I was a big meanie pants for having the audacity to have an attitude of 'no, I'm not going to immediately forgive him for assaulting me, I need time' or 'no, I won't do him huge, personally costly favors after he's spent the month abusing me just because a parent asked me to'.

On that note, let's talk about forgiveness. The way I was brought up, on the rare occasion that "those who knew best" would agree an offense against me- often assault or slander- was actually the offender's fault and not somehow magically my own, forgiveness was expected immediately and totally. I could not say 'I forgive you but I don't trust you', or 'I can't forgive you right now, I need time to recover from the umpteenth betrayal'. I had to forgive immediately and totally, and be willing to show I forgave with favors and kindness.

This standard, of course, did not apply to mom, dad, the brat, or any stranger. They could hold grudges for any offense, real or not. They were allowed to bring up past mistakes at any time, and begin ballads of woe of how I had wounded them so grievously it was a miracle of Jesus Christ they could ever bring themselves to forgive me.

Forgetting to open a window was serious business, I guess.

Back to the brat. His life is best described as one very long tantrum at the horrible injustice of having to follow the same rules and standards as everyone else, and of course, being saddled with a horrible, awful brother who actually had feelings and resented being used as a verbal and physical punching bag.

The brat... had a hard life. He was unfairly expected by normal people to be civil or responsible, the law expected him to obey drug and speeding laws, and I expected him to go a few days without screaming rages and death threats. Truly a horrible life.

I lived in terror that eventually, someday, either an abusive teacher or random stranger would make an accusation of drug usage or something far more heinous, and that would have been it- Jesus Christ himself could come down to offer proof of my innocence, and my parents would be falling over themselves to strap me in for lethal injection, quoting 'well they must've had a good reason to say that!'

The brat, conversely, might receive some temporary negative rebuke for drug use or crashing another car, but it was all forgivable. He had MENTAL ISSUES, after all, and that was his free ticket to do as he pleased.

When he attacked me, nothing was off limited. He'd scratch, kick, gouge, bite, bend fingers, throw things, then scream bloody murder and act like I'd started it if mom or dad showed up. Growing up, I was told that I should fight back by both parents- and then when I threw him off of me in self-defense, invariably they'd scream I went too far.

I've mentioned the gist of his drug issues in a previous post, so I won't go over them too much. Incidents 1 and 2 had him found by his parents which resulted in slaps on the wrist. The third time found him caught with weed on campus. The fourth saw him caught making and selling... something. I don't know the exact details beyond it was serious enough to get the police on his ass.

Ironically, the police gave me a fairer shake than my parents. He went to jail, I did not. Over the course of several weeks, it became readily apparent that mommy and daddy weren't going to be able to bail him out this time.

So he killed himself.

I admit, initially, I was in shock. Even a negative constant was still a constant, and suddenly there wasn't anyone banging on my door or screaming in my face about imaginary slights. I think I might have even been genuinely sad for a few days.

Then, slowly, I started realizing just how better off I was without him. Yes, mom made some jabs about how much I hated him(and ignored me when I tried to explain *why* he had earned my hatred). But all in all his death was the one point in my life where I felt that some force of cosmic justice exists from time to time.

When the time comes and I get possession of his ashes, I'm going to give him the funeral he deserves- a mocking eulogy and a flush down a well-used convenience store toilet. While I do regret not taking the opportunity to beat him senseless when he attacked me, I am grateful that he was taken out of my life without the need for me to create an alibi.

May he be tortured in hell, forever and ever, without rest or mercy, amen.