I don’t remember a lot about my brother, just the big events that occurred around him. I think during my younger years he went off to school, and tended to skip a lot and sneak out at night to hang out with his friends. He started with marijuana and has done other things, and I know in his adult life he had eventually moved on to crack. My parents like to blame everything that happened in our family on the behavior of my brother, and like to blame the drugs. But somehow even to this day, I think the drugs were a symptom and something a lot worse was going on.
I can understand why my brother turned to drugs and seeked to escape the household, looking for ways to make life bearable. I can understand how it was hard because I probably harbor many of the same feelings, but my brother and I expressed it in different way.
When my brother was around, he got the brunt of my mother’s rage. It would often start in the morning because she felt my brother was sleeping too late. Then, her rage would begin. Perhaps my brother deserved some discipline, but discipline isn’t what my mother provided. She’d begin to yell, stomp around, slam doors, and provoke. I hated when she provoked my brother, she just wouldn’t stop. Even at the young age, I already knew how it was going to happen. My mother was going to hound my brother until his rage was unleashed.
When my brother lost it, he would become violent. It started simply with punching and kicking holes in the walls and doors. He’d throw breakables across the room, he’d throw telephones, and he’d start throwing everything. Once or twice, he tried to choke my mother. Once he slammed me against a fridge and choked me. Once, he left the house in a rage and came back with a few friends and began throwing bricks through the windows. There were a lot of bricks. I can remember my brother raging out of his room, screaming and flailing his arms, walking down the hallway and slamming his body back and forth from wall to wall, falling on the ground kicking and screaming and flailing.
The police were often called, my brother would be taken to jail, and eventually they’d bail him out and drop the charges and cycle would begin again. I understand my brother’s pain to an extent, but not his actions. He had the habit of getting himself in trouble, totaling 8 cars with alcohol abuse, pawning the family possessions to purchase drugs, skipping lots of school…
I remember the worst event by far. It was morning and I woke up early to get ready for school. The first thing I did was start doing my laundry. My brothers cat was standing by the door to his room, meowing. My mother opened the door and let the cat in, and apparently left it open. Seconds later, a door slammed. Then yelling ensued, and more doors slammed. I knew it was only a matter of time before things started getting broken and holes in the wall started appearing, but I guess I was an odd kid. I didn’t cry, or run and hide in fear; I simply weaved in and out and between yelling parents and siblings and prepared my laundry like nothing was going on.
This day was different though; my brother knocked my dad onto the bed and started to strangle him, and then went to break things in the living room. My dad kept a loaded revolver under the bed and took ii out and went into the living room. I think I remember my dead telling my brother to go take a walk, but it didn’t turn out well because the fell onto the coffee table and flattened it. My father shot my brother in the abdomen.
I remember seeing my brother sitting on the couch exclaiming, “You shot me!” My father was on the other side of the couch calling for an ambulance. My mother was screaming. I, quite strangely, didn’t think much of it. It was time to put my clothes in the dryer and that’s where I was headed. My mother grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the street screaming to a friend’s house. I thought she was overreacting, plus I wanted to see how it all ended. I guess I was quite used to it all.
My brother survived, and throughout the time afterwards he’d always end up back living at home. The violence never really stopped. I couldn’t tell you where he is today, because I never had much to do with him. If I ever I do mention to somebody around me, they are usually quite shocked. “You have a brother?” I guess I don’t talk about my family much.
