I Have a Brother

Recently, I have been meeting a lot of new people. It happens when you start a new job or move to a new place - both of which have happened in my life this month. People, I've noticed, really like to dig deeply into one another's lives as soon as possible. I like to think it is because they want to get to know the "real you," but sometimes... sometimes I think it might have to do with the basic human need to know everything. We're naturally curious, which is a good thing. Sometimes, though, I wish people were less curious about my life. I am generally very reserved; I don't like sharing every facet of my life with strangers I meet. When I do share Serious Things, it is usually with the people I care about most.

Today, though, I have been in something of a pensive mood. I blame, perhaps, the fact I am teaching about authenticity in my honors English classes. My students are probing what makes an authentic identity and how we can see the boundaries of falsehood in our own lives. And it got me thinking about how much of a liar I really am.

You see, when people ask me if I have any siblings I lie. I tell them I am an only child. Which, for fifteen years, was true. My parents were never able to have any other children, and I spent most of my formative years solo. In many ways, being an only child was good for me. My imagination filled in the gaps left by a lack of friends, and I was never short on ways to keep myself busy as a child. I did not have to share my parents with anyone else, and they were able to help me navigate the treacherous waters of being disabled without shortchanging any of my siblings. I was even able to develop fantastic relationships with both of my parents, because I was able to spend so much time one-on-one with both of them. My parents were, for most of my life, my only real friends.

When I was fifteen, my parents adopted a little boy named Philip. He was ten, and he genuinely looked like an angel with his big dark eyes and soft blond hair. I was so excited. All my life, I had prayed and prayed to have a little brother or sister. I knew that I would take good care of them - that I'd be the perfect older sister. I promised God that I would protect them from bad mistakes, be their friend, and never pick fights with them - if only He'd let me have just one sibling of my own. It was, for many years, what I wished for every birthday when I blew out my candles.

But Philip was not the sibling my tender heart had dreamed of.

On the rare occasion I own up to having a brother, I preface it with, "I have a sibling, legally speaking, but I don't really claim him." Before any sort of association can even begin, I try to cut ties with him. It makes me uncomfortable to even think of him as my sibling. He might share my last name, but does that really make him my brother? You can see how I split hairs on the subject. I often follow up my distanced introduction with an explanation of how messed up Phillip (as he now spells his name) really is: "He has a laundry list of issues so long I can't even name them all. You know, schizophrenic, bipolar, fetal alcohol syndrome, sociopath..." Most people respond with genuine concern, and some even go far enough to proclaim that they understand my hesitance to claim him. After all, who would want a monster for a brother?

Whenever I read the New Testament, I struggle with all of the references to brothers. Matthew 5:22 is particularly aggravating: "But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire." It bothers me so much because ... I have spoken contemptuously of my brother, and I have very openly called him an idiot, fool, and a waste of space. In fact, one of my favorite rants (for a time) was that the entire world would be better off if my brother were dead. Sometimes I still go off on that rant.

Yep.

It has taken a lot of work to be able to even begin to come to terms with Phillip. My feelings about him didn't just appear, fully formed and unfounded, one night while I slept. He legitimately caused a lot of issues in our home. My best friends, my parents, suddenly weren't there for me when I needed them the most. I spent several years in an abusive relationship because I felt like my parents were too busy dealing with a psychotic son to need to be bothered with my "little" problems. Phillip also did everything he could do to destroy my parents' marriage: Every night he would try and turn them on each other. Our home literally became a battleground. I felt homeless. It got to the point where I lived each day thinking, "Today I'm probably going to die. And I don't know if anyone will notice." He tried to kill me on multiple occasions, we celebrated my sixteenth birthday him trying to beat my mother to death, and he still haunts my nightmares.

But.

I have come to realize that he is still my brother. His mistakes - his choices - will come back to haunt him some day. It may not be until he stands before the seat of God facing judgement at the end of time, but eventually Phillip will realize the damage he has done. But those mistakes do not make him any less my brother. The important thing I've learned is that ... I can love him as I love any son or daughter of God, but I do not have to let him into the inner sanctum of my heart. I let him in there once, and he ravaged the depths of my soul with the outpourings of his demons. But he is still my brother. I should not - cannot - hate him. If I do, I am no better than he is.

So, I have a brother. His name is Phillip. He's five years younger than me, and I love him (to a point). Right now he's trying to get a job and be a productive citizen, which is progress for him. He's got a lot of demons, and we've got a lot of bad blood between us. But, I hope some day he'll get his life figured out. I just don't talk about him because it hurts too much. He was supposed to be my ally, my friend, my little brother... but instead he was a nightmare made real. And I've never really bounced back from that disappointment. I hope, with all of my heart, that my children never experience what I have gone through. I hope that their siblings are everything I did not have, and I hope they cherish the relationships they have with one another.

If you have a sibling, be grateful for them. I know you may fight and have days where you just can't understand why they'd do something you think is so stupid, but ... they're still yours. When your parents die, whose shoulder are you going to cry on? When you have your first child, who comes to the blessing? When you feel alone or need help, who do you call - knowing they will answer? Ten cents says it's your siblings. I wish I had that.

Fear

Have you ever been so afraid that you can't feel anymore? Your head screams at your heart that it should be pounding, but the only answer it gets is the faintest shaking in your hands. Instead of running to hide, you stand there dumbly as your mind attempts to process what is going on.

I spent six years living like that. Home was like that.

My parents, God bless them, made my childhood a bright and happy one. I remember all of the fun things we used to do, and how much time we spent laughing together. It was a golden age, one since tarnished by the darkness of the years. I can barely remember what it was to see my parents being carefree...

Six years ago, just about, Phillip Peter came into our home and made life frightening. I would go to sleep every night curled up around the knot of numbness, that sickening twist of fear, all the while wondering if I was going to wake up in the morning or if Phillip would just off me during the night. My days were cold, walking on a feet-slicing edge of a knife while I waited for the latest explosion. Every day it got worse, the scenes more violent. It felt like I was in some sort of sick, twisted movie where the only ending could be a homicide-suicide combination tabloid cover. Birthdays, holidays, every day could not pass without my mother and father being beaten on by a little whelp of a boy.

Best part? No one believed me when I said I didn't want to go home. They told me "Your parents are too cool! Why wouldn't you want to go home?" Because I didn't want to be near the screaming, the swearing, the hatred that was Phillip. This year, though, things finally got better. The state finally realized that Phillip was dangerous, violent, volatile and ready to kill. They took him into their custody, pulling him out of our house. That's all it is now... a house.

You see, even with him gone I can't seem to escape him. I've told my parents that I never want to hear his name again. I've told them that I am sick of the entire mess. I just want to get on with my life. But how can you let go of someone who has dug his claws into the very cavity of your heart and left poison there to rot it up? Mom, for one, just can't let him go. I told her specifically that I didn't want to hear her rants on Phillip, that I just wanted him to go away.

She doesn't listen.

Everything ties back to him, and her need to talk about how bad he makes her feel all the time. My possible internship with the Folger's Institute Library of Shakespeare? Just tied back to him. My eight page paper on Shakespeare and the shifting moral systems in Western culture? Tied back to him. The weather? Tied back to him.

Why can't it stop?!

I don't want to hurt her feelings, but if she mentions him and how he makes her feel one more time I am going to start to scream, to cry, to stop feeling at all. Why can't she get that?

And then she and Dad insisted that I see "The Soloist." Why did they do that to me? It involves someone who behaves like Phillip does--they should know, they saw it more than a week ago--and yet she demanded I see that instead of "17 Again." All the fear, all the numbness? It's back, knotting and twisting in my stomach just like it used to. My hands are shaking, my head is screaming.

And for what?