More Stuff

I have spent something like 6 months wondering if I ought to write to my brother to find out if my father was alive or not. As you can see from the post below, I did.

I do not regret doing so and I do not feel as bad as I thought I might do. It has of course brought up all sorts of sh*t.

His final response to me (at least I hope it is final) clearly shows me that he is still in denial and still holds me responsible. He can't do anything else. His whole life is based upon this lie. If he really saw me, and saw what happened, then he would have to accept that our parents were what they were and not what he sees them as-good parents who had the misfortune to have a rotten son - me. He can't do that.

I detest how he makes his money. It is a con. He may also be conning himself, and therefore not realise he is conning others too.

He didn't speak up all those years ago when I was locked up in a psychiatric hospital and diagnosed as Paranoid Schizophrenic because my telling the truth was seen as lies because my family denied it. My brother, did not tell the truth and he knows he didn't because I had a weird phone call from him in 94 which was to beg my forgiveness for him not speaking up. In the second phone call he was back to his hateful blaming of me.

I was forced to take neuroleptics. These drugs are dreadful. An animal died at my hands whilst I was on these. To this day it breaks my heart to know this. No matter how I tell myself I was not myself, it hurts like crazy and haunts me today.

These drugs make one extremely anxious, cause tremors, shuffling gait, and can cause permanent muscle damage. Not only do they not help, they cause tremendous pain and anguish and hallucinations etc. In short, they are evil and I am sure are probably used by torturers. I'd die before I would take these again.

Imagine being held down by a group of so called carers, psych nurses, having your trousers pulled down and having this stuff injected into your bum.

For a few years prior to this, during this, and after this, my brother was constantly telling me how evil I was, how God hated me, how I was possessed by demons, how wicked I was for not Honouring My Mother and Father as commanded to. How homosexuals stood no chance or being loved as we were hateful evil people. (He is gay too but I didn't know this. My elder brother is also gay but he never helped me or even told me he was. He left me to take all the sh*t from our parents.)

My two brothers are like my parents who never considered anyone other than themselves. Part of the reason my education stopped was because they decided to move, they did not have to, from Australia to here right in the middle of my most important school year. I never did recover from that. My official education finished there.

In the early 80's my elder brother was in hospital. My parents visited him often as did my brother . I was in the same hospital seriously physically ill (liver damage from the psych drugs) and no one visited me except for my own partner John. I had forgotten this until he reminded me.

My brothers reason for hating me, he says, is that I was violent towards him. I was too. How else was I to react when full of psych drugs for a start and he was telling me over and over how evil I was and that I was possessed and just plain wicked. When he told me how he hated me for the violence, I apologised to him. I said I was sorry for any pain I had caused him. Of course to this day he does not accept he had any responsibility at all. ( might add that the violence was was not such that it caused breaks or bruises. In fact Idon't really recall what he says happened but I took his word for it and did my part in apologising. I meant it too. I would not wish to cause him suffering. ) Funny how he holds me to account but not himself.

Whilst I was in hospital, they all went off to Orlando, paid for my my elder brother because they needed a break from their mad and bad son / brother. Later, when I was with John, my partner, I was speaking to my mum on my Dad's birthday and I was casually informed that they were all going out to celebrate and I was not invited.

I was such a f**king fool in those days. Did I see what was happening? NO! Did I stop seeing them? NO! I still believed that I could get it right and they would love and accept me. I didn't know then that the problem was them and not me. I may not have been so humiliated had I known that then. I may not have wasted so much energy and shame and guilt upon people who were not worthy of me at all, who didn't deserve me, my love, or my time.

This is only a very small sample of the sh*t that went on in my family. As I re read what I have written, I feel proud of myself. Not only have I survived, I am LIVING, not existing. I am happy. I am at peace with myself and who I am and where I came from. I am loved. I love. I have a good life. I have a partner of 27 years, more than can be said about them. I am astonished really that I did survive all that and more. Maybe later I will give more details, a blow by blow account so to speak but I don't feel the need to right now.

(I don't want anything from my father-my reason for needing to know if he dies is purely for our continued research. For sometime, almost 2 years, my mother communicated thru various people at various churches and I had no clue. Yes, it sound like her but she was alive so it couldn't have been. So I thought. I could not believe she would die and no one would tell me. They didn't tell me. They could have. They chose not to. That speaks volumes about them.)

Edit: it is at times such as these that I am aware how therapeutic writing my blog is for me. It helps me process my thoughts and feelings.