A day in the life
My brother had issues all his own. I witnessed many an angry outburst. He was kicked out numerous times after the age of sixteen, but he’d eventually be allowed back in to stay. My brother dabbled with marijuana, alcohol, and eventually started smoking crack. If my family left the house there was a good chance one of my fathers guns or VCR’s would find its way into a pawn shop.
Despite my brothers bad behavior, which he is solely responsible for, I couldn’t help but notice my parents behavior went beyond normal discipline. My mother would go off on one of her rages and nag and my brother would yell back until he eventually lost all control. The yelling and screaming between my mother and brother would often erupt in violence. My brother would come storming out of his room and start flinging his body against the wall or fall down on the floor. He’d start punching holes in the wall, breaking pictures and vases, and would hurl anything that wasn’t tied down across the room. He’d leave after the cops were called, only to return in the middle of the night to steal something for a drug binge or worse. There was a time he gathered up a friend and came back to hurl bricks and rocks through all the windows. He’d often spend some time in jail until my parents would drop the charges.
The defining moment was the morning my brother and mother fought over the cat. It resulted in my brother threatening my mother and eventually trying to choke my father. My father got a loaded pistol and told my brother he needed to leave, but that ended with my brother taking a bullet in the gut. My mother grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the street while my father called an ambulance. My brother survived without much damage, but I’m not so sure I did.
Despite the serious dysfunction in my childhood home, I’m starting to notice something odd about my own behavior while witnessing it all. It was just another day in the family, and I didn’t seemed phased by it. My goal that morning was to get my clothes washed and dried before I had to go to school. I wasn’t struck with fear. I wasn’t in a panic. I didn’t cry. I was just going about my life, carrying loads of laundry from my room and weaving in and out past a bunch of angry people while ducking flying phones and lamps. I just thought I was tough kid, but somebody mentioned to me that its a very strange reaction that I ought to examine the events closer. I had gained an interesting story to tell, and most of all I had an excuse not to go to school that day.
Some relatives told me to be strong for my father because he needed me to be and needed my support. I don’t remember anyone being all that concerned about me. My school counselor called me into his office to mention it, but we didn’t talk much about it. I told him I was used to it, and didn’t really care all that much. I didn’t. Everybody seemed to think I had no bad feelings about it and sent me on my way, but I think it was the lack of emotions I expressed that may have been a significant indicator that something about me wasn’t right. I was woudned, and my disorders were hard at work protecting me from the chaos and trying to let me lead a stress free happy life. They served me well, or so I thought. I didn’t realize how disconnected and withdrawn I had always been. I didn’t know how alone I was through it all. I didn’t know there was anything different about me at all.
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