In my previous article, “My Brother Took Our Mother’s Life & I Think I Understand Why,” I delved into the tragedy of my mother’s death and the factors that led my brother to commit such a horrific act. However, there’s another question that often lingers in conversations, one that makes my heart race and my words stumble: “How did you manage to survive?”
Honestly, there are days when it feels like I haven’t fully survived. The cycle of abuse is a winding and difficult path, one I am still navigating, weighed down by the shame that often accompanies being a victim. Yet, on other days, I reflect on the deeper inquiry: how can two siblings from the same family diverge so drastically—one becoming a murderer and the other a beacon of hope?
To put it simply, I believe that both love and hate stem from our attachments. For every instance my brother experienced rejection and isolation, I found acceptance and celebration. By the time I entered the world, my parents were already separated, and my father had moved out. His absence felt like the norm to me, and it was only devastating for my brother.
Our family’s instability was marked by numerous moves—ten homes in just sixteen years. I embraced these changes, using them as opportunities to reinvent myself and forge new friendships. In contrast, my brother struggled socially, facing bullying and feeling like an outcast. While I was able to navigate these challenges with relative ease, he was rejected time and again, which fueled his anger.
As our lives progressed, the abuse began. My brother also battled his demons, attempting suicide and being institutionalized. During this time, I wrote him letters, despite having been victimized by him. In those bleak institutions, he felt more isolated, while I learned the importance of offering support to others in pain. For me, school, friendships, and my mom became my sanctuary.
Eventually, my brother’s struggle led him to unhealthy coping mechanisms, including substance abuse and violence towards our mother and me. The cycle of violence continued, with my mother often having to call the police. When he was absent, my mother and I found solace in each other, forming an unbreakable bond. This only fueled my brother’s resentment, as he recognized the love we shared, which he lacked.
Tragically, just weeks after I graduated from college, my brother took my mother’s life. It was a culmination of years of turmoil and rage, but I found the strength to carry on. I had learned that while bad things happen, they do eventually cease, and love can always be rediscovered—whether in the form of support from friends, guidance from mentors, or the memories of my mother’s encouraging words.
I share this not to absolve my brother of his actions or to excuse his choices. Many face similar adversities without resorting to violence. Rather, it’s a reminder that no one exists in isolation, and a little kindness can go a long way in transforming lives.
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In summary, my journey through trauma and loss has taught me that love can shine through even the darkest moments. The connections we forge can be a powerful antidote to hate and despair.
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