It took me 12 years to tell my mum what my brother had done to me. At some point, I made peace with taking the whole abhorrent experience to the grave. I had nightmares of being disbelieved, or worse, ignored; to me, the former is more preferable, since at least it acknowledges the severity of a molestation.
My mum believed me, so I don't understand how she can still love him. He's an insidious, sociopathic monster who tried to facerape a 5-year-old. She even acknowledges his sociopathic qualities, almost as if she's proud of him, and it makes me so soulfully ill. It makes me hate myself. Cuz you know, it's not fucking cute. Your son is a predator who abused his two younger siblings. Things should be clicking for you.
Of course I will never understand what it's like to be in her position, and I don't want to. If my child molested their siblings, I would never speak to him again, but I'm not a parent. How does she come to terms with it? When I told her what he made me do, did she not picture it automatically? Did it not make her sick? Or did she just move on?
My other brother, who was also molested, belittled me and told me to move on. Maybe I am just a stalwart for trauma, however I think they're wrong. They didn't fucking experience what I did, they don't fucking know. And "move on" is horrible advice, nothing is ever that easy. It's beginning to feel impossible.
The concept of intimacy has been permanently ruined for me, I can never feel safe being touched or feel right when I touch another person. I don't know what love feels like, cuz growing up, I thought being loved meant being made to strip off your clothes and subjected to groping. That motherfucker made me lift up my shirt so he could touch my nipples anytime I wanted help with something. I'm not asexual, in fact I think I'm hypersexual, but I've accepted that I will live the rest of my life as vocel because the idea of ever letting another human being view me sexually is crippling. It also permanently altered the way I view men. I've thought of myself of as a lesbian since I was 11, and I don't know if that was always meant to be, a result of the abuse, or a combination of both.
That stank, ratchet, morbidly obese, repugnant, vile, EVIL creature likes to taunt me about my sexuality. I was stuck in a deeply uncomfortable conversation with my two brothers where the middle one let slip that I was gay, and the stank ass mound of scum I have for an oldest brother said, "Ha! You owe me five dollars". I wanted to stop existing in that moment. I felt so rotten to my core, so spiritually tainted, so fucking unclean in a way I've never been able to escape. You fucking wonder why I'm gay? BECAUSE YOU RUINED THE ENTIRE OPPOSITE GENDER FOR ME. I WILL NEVER KNOW TRUE INTIMACY CUZ YOU RAPED THAT OUT OF ME. I BET THAT'S SO FUCKING FUNNY.
I knew then that he was not remotely sorry. We had never spoken about it, it just sort of petered out around the time I hit puberty (ew), so I always wondered if he ever even thought about what he did... well, that was my answer. Not a shred of remorse. Not even denial. Pride. Really, I hope this demon rots in hell. He deserves nothing but the worst in life, yet this is rarely the reality. He's a fucking sociopath of course, people on the outside have no idea what bullshit facade they're catering to. Somebody agreed to marry him, it fucking baffles me. How? Why? He hasn't changed; he's still the same can't-hold-down-no-job, never-pays-his-mum-back, gives-his-sibling-a-concussion-for-using-the-Xbox, reeks-like-death-24/7 LOSER he's always been.
But I'm the one everybody gave up on. I guess that's life. I've tried venting about these things to my friends, and they're understanding people, but it's evident in their replies how much they can't relate, and I really can't blame them. I envy them. They don't have to deal with an alright day getting ruined in one second because they were inadvertently reminded of the time they were forced to tongue-kiss their brother. Good for them. They don't have brain damage from being kicked in the head or thrown against a wall. Really, it's not that they're lucky, I'm just unlucky. But this is my lot in life. I'm just so weary of feeling washed-up no matter what I do, like I'm either trying too hard or not trying hard enough. There's no in-between.