Ashes to Ashes

The funeral was today. I feel so bad for my surviving brother, being there by himself, surrounded by strangers on what was surely one of the most difficult days of his life. Even though they could not have been more different and went in totally separate life directions, they were twins and I'm sure there is a bond there that I don't understand. All I know is how I feel as the little sister, and it's a lot of sadness. Yes, even with many years of silence between us, there is still a grieving process.

For the incredibly insensitive troll who didn't think I deserved condolences, in light of what you decided not to share (i.e. your identity), I believe a big FUCK YOU is in order.

For the rest of you, perhaps a definition will begin to explain the complexity of my emotions.

in·cest [in sest] noun - sexual activity between two people who are considered, for moral and genetic reasons, too closely related to have such a relationship. [13th century. From Latin incestus , from castus.]

When it began I was 4, he was 11. When it ended I was 10 and he was 17. Without realizing what he was doing, my Dad saved me by kicking my brother out of the house when he was 18, after showing up late for dinner and high on something one too many times. It was the one and only time I've ever heard my father say FUCK in my presence. As in, get your things and get the fuck out of this house.

In my late 20s I finally dredged up the courage to tackle this demon and began therapy. Four years later I wrote a letter confronting him and copied the immediate family. He completely denied that anything happened. His wife at the time was in the court system and claimed to have found an anonymous police report accusing him of abuse. I had no knowledge of this report, and responded that if one existed, it proved he had done this to someone else as well. He hid behind her skirt and never responded in any way. She tried to file a restraining order against me and was unsuccessful.

The rest of the family was split on this news, as usual. My Dad was horrified and was very supportive, as was my other brother, who was able to cooberate and clarify certain events. My sister was terrified that I would tell her secrets, which I did not, and whispered to me that I was making a bigger deal out of this than I should. My Mom finally had to acknowledge that some of the things I had accused him of did indeed happen, given the agreement from other sources. Even then, she blew it off as something he was not responsible for, because "he was a child". And what was I?

Soon after this confrontation I turned 30. Within 6 weeks I left my ex-husband. The therapy had opened up a lot of wounds and made me realize the patterns and habits I was carrying that were self-destructive. Including allowing myself to be treated like shit by my husband.

The death of my brother, my abuser, is not something I had prepared to deal with. He died a young man. And today I feel like a very little girl.