*** Warning, this essay deals with suicide, and rape.***

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The Mansion and My Brother

June 8, 2022

My brother is an asshole, sorry but there is no way to sugar coat that, he simply is an asshole. To date I have not spoken to him in 25 years, and I really have no desire to ever again. The last I saw of him was when I confronted him about being physically aggressive to my then new girlfriend, the Leprechaun. He had not hit her, but he had been verbally and physically threatening to her as well as grossly disrespectful. Since I had left the whore, the one with the turn-style and caving tours, I was absolutely committed to a violence-free lifestyle. He too had also been working hard to destabilize this new relationship, something from him that I was very familiar with, he had done it with the Nanny when she 14 years old, the whore, and had when we were teenagers, had bullied my friends. But before this incident with the Leprechaun, there had been a period of 5 or 6 years where my brother and I had not talked, this involved him smashing a full bottle of beer over my head, and me picking myself up from off the floor, and breaking his jaw for his trouble, the loser.

These things alone make me want to steer clear of him, but there is more and worse. When I was 15, there was strong indications that there was something very wrong, going on between my brother, and mother. It was soon revealed to me by my father, that what I suspected was indeed true, my mother and brother were involved in an incestuous sexual relationship. Who initiated what, and how it came to be, I have no idea, only questions. Even the best case scenario is sick. It’s possible, perhaps likely, that my brother, is guilty of cooperative rape, by that I mean she either submitted to it, or by judging by her behavours, she actively participated. It could be that somewhere in that sick mind of his, he decided to take that action as an attempt to at last dominate her, negate my father, and check-mate me. As if somehow that made him the alpha male of the family. This may indeed have been the case, considering his reaction to mom’s suicide, his behavour up until dad threw him out of the house two months before his own suicide. Again I have no real answers, only the certainty that it happened.

My brother is two and a half years older than me, so for at least a year and a half longer he was subject to my mother’s red stick and routine beatings. (Here’s hoping that she would not beat a child less than a year old). And yes you are right, I have absolutely no faith in her, and she would not have been allowed to hold, or be alone with any child of mine. He was their first born, and was mom’s favourite, dad on the other hand, could not bond with him. He too had trouble bonding with me, the difference was, I would at least try to meet him at his level, because if not, dad was completely inaccessible. It was more than a little difficult for him to come down to a child’s level.

This was more than a little frustrating as a child, you never knew who dad was, add his addiction to the mix and it was a disaster. My brother was always afraid of my father, he never knew how to bridge that inaccessibility. I do not believe that it could be, they simply did not like the other. With this in mind, and hard in place by the time my brother was 10 years old, what was it like for the both of them that day out on the lake fishing, on the day my mother beat me unconscious? From what little I know of the incident, my brother was stood at the stern of the boat, he was leaning on the transom of the engine compartment while threading fishing line into a fishing hook. He had far too much line out for slack and some of it was in the water near the engine’s propeller. Meanwhile my father was up front, stood with one foot on the drivers seat, and the other on the gunwale too near the throttle for the engine threading his own hook. Apparently a wave from a speeding passing boat, caused dad to lose his balance, and caused him to burp the throttle. My brother’s fishing line that was in the water, got wrapped up in the prop nearly pulling him into the water, and somehow his hook and more line, went through the palm of his hand several times before dad could kill the engine.

So on the surface, this was just a shitty unlucky accident, but only on the surface. When we dig deeper, it shows two people needing to be as far apart as possible. It shows my brother’s fear of his father in how he did not ask for help in threading his line, he knew no more about fishing than I know about flying a F35 Raptor launching nukes. It shows my father being irresponsible in not supervising a young child while he was using a sharp instrument. Further it shows dad being irresponsible in how he was positioned while threading his own line, he should have been sat or at least leaning against something far more solid, water is unpredictable and can throw anyone off balance easily. It is also likely that dad was stoned while this took place. Dad had then gotten my brother disconnected from the prop, untangled the prop, then had raced back to the resort. And in a complete panic, had drove off with mom in the car, to the hospital leaving me, at seven years old, to fend for myself for the next sixteen or so hours.

Sixteen hours, that is a bloody long time, especially when you are a cold, hungry, and scared seven year old. As I had watched them drive off without me, I knew that they would be gone a long time. The length of time they were gone seems excessive, what took place was this. They had gone to the local hospital in Gravenhurst, the hospital there did not have a specialist who could help my brother. The doctors there did what they could to stabilize my brother, and got in touch with doctors in Toronto. Toronto had said yes we can do it if you can get him here like yesterday. So instead of my mother looking after things in Gravenhurst while dad came back for me, they had gone straight from Gravenhurst to Toronto, got lost while trying to find the hospital in Toronto, faced delays at that hospital; I mean what is more important, a kid with a fish hook in his hand, or a heart attack? Finally got my brother in, got through his procedure, waited till the doctors said okay you can take him home, and just be more fucking careful! Then had driven the two hours or so back to the resort, to find me frozen and angry. Dad had then put my brother to bed, ignored me, then had stormed out of the cottage leaving me to face the ice faced cunt, and receive one of the worst beatings of my life to that point.

So that is my brother, he had been exposed to my parent’s toxicity for two and a half years longer than I had. He is a psychopath because of that exposure. His psychosis was displaying itself from very early, during that brief period that we were “reunited” while my relationship with the leprechaun was developing, my brother said to me, “that if I could have figured out how to smother you to death as an infant, I would have”. When he said that, it should have chilled me to the bone. Instead, while sat on my comfy couch, I looked at him and asked if he would like to try it right here and now? The stupid fuck actually got halfway out of my chair to go for it, before collapsing back into it looking like a scared little boy, as he should have. I was being nice by giving him a few more seconds which he clearly needed to think about what was about to happen to him. And if and where I might stop, there was a lot of pain and misery to be made up for. I continued to sit there and observe him too calmly which completely unnerved him.

For as long as I can remember, my brother and I had fought, it was not sibling rivalry, it was deep seated hate. Until my mid teens, I lost all of those fights because I was younger, and a lot smaller. The day of the beer bottle changed that because it changed the psychology of it, he no longer had that edge over me. Comfy couch day was an awesome day for me, he gave me superiority over him and I had not even had to move a muscle.

So what does any of this have to do with spirituality? In answer, seemingly nothing. My brother believed in god but had no desire to pursue that further. His attitude towards religion was actually to corrupt those who did believe. He was 15 or 16 at the time, he was bitching to mom that he could not get a girlfriend. Dad threw the idea at him that he should start going to church, there were a lot of pretty girls in church. He immediately balked at the idea saying that girls in church were too goody two shoes. True some are, others are there just doing their duty, and others would rather have been smoking dope and fucking behind a clump of trees in Cedarbrae park instead of being sat in a pew in church. This last was the type that he wanted, but typical of my brother, he was too lazy to actually do the work to separate out the wheat from the chaff.

I could go on for several hundred pages describing my brother’s character, or lack thereof, and how his needs were met far above and beyond mine. Though this essay is distressing to both write and read, with it I hope to inspire. Yes shitty things happen to good people, yes you may feel victimized, yes you may be filled with sadness and rage beyond expression, and yes, you can get through it and come out the other side of it filled with strength and power. Remember, as you go through whatever it is you are going through, there will not be some dude sat on a cloud holding your hand as it happens. You are going through that shit alone, and you must reach inside yourself and find your sacred self and tap into that limitless power. You are your own god, act like it! Too, there is the Akashic Record to help you understand why and how things came to you, when you are ready, heal in it’s loving power and energy.

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