Warning. Just saying, but this may trigger. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Also it's long. And of no consequence to anyone else other than myself. I'm not looking for attention. I'm not looking for sympathy. I just needed to write this and it is simply more affective for my mental health to post it. It's sort of like writing an angry letter and throwing it away only, I'm writing a letter, and I'm letting them read it. Only it's not them reading it, it's just pretty simple to trick my mind into believing it is and getting that satisfaction and relief while not actually suffering the consequences of them actually reading it.
It's also way harder to trick myself into thinking I posted it, when in actual fact I deleted it.
My brother, little brother is messaging me over facebook.
I don't think I've ever been so happy to chat over facebook. I mean, it's scary that all of a sudden my baby bro can spell, but I'm talking to him over facebook and I'm crying over how much I miss him.
Jesus christ I miss him.
I keep thinking he's seven. I keep thinking he's still seven and needs help with his ten plus ten math home work and simple reading and writing homework. I keep forgetting he's eleven this year. My baby brother is eleven this year.
I mean, he spells better than most of you people do.
But no, I was playing this random game on facebook, I'm rarely on the damn site but I've gotten stuck into this game so I'm on a lot more than I used to, and randomly I get a message from my dad. Turns out, my little brother had hacked dads phone, and sent me a message.
I don't think you get how honoured I am by that. He sent me a message. He's talking to me, not because I'm there, not because he has to, not because he was told to, but because he wants to. He decided of his own free will, that he wants to talk to his big sister.
He wants to talk to me. After everything my step mum told me, that my younger siblings would forget about me, that they would hate me, my little brother WANTS to talk to me. He's teasing me for being so short, and telling me about his new pokemon cards. He still hates school and loves scouts. I'm missing out on so much, but he fills me in every time I visit and I love it. I wish I could see him more often. I wish I wasn't scared of the home he lives in.
He wants me to come home. I know he does. My baby sister does too, and she understands even less than he does why I left. She's five or six this year. I've lost count. I don't even know how old my only sister is anymore. That's really sad actually. I've missed three birthdays. How old was she when I left? I don't even know. I paid so little attention and fuck do I regret it.
I want to go home but I know I'll go back to hating life if I do. I'm no good there. I'm not wanted there by anyone except my younger siblings. I don't think even my older brother wants me back. He loves me, I know he does, but it feels so much like he doesn't care at times. He's just a pawn. He's just a pawn to our step mum and he can't even see that. He's fucking blind to it and I hate it. He hates Mum and she didn't even do anything. It was all dad and that dumb bitch. They took us off our mum when she was only trying to protect us.
She was only trying to protect us.
I had to endure living with that piece of shit, watching her beat the crap out of my older brother, having her beat the crap out of me, after she took us away from our mum, and chased her half way across the country. I didn't get to see my own mum for nine years, just because one fat bitch was jealous.
Do you know what it's like to be ten years old, and have no idea what the build up in your little body is? What the clogging in your throat is, why you cry every single day at school over the tiniest things.
To have all these negative feelings bubble over, until one day you're leaning over a three year old, and you're beating the crap out of him, because that's how your stepmother taught you to deal with shit. To beat it. I beat the crap out of my baby brother. I beat him until the red haze left and I realised what I'd done and let him go tell on me. Crying the whole way. When she came after me, dragging me down the hallway by my hair I let her. I knew what I'd done. I knew that this time I deserved it. And Dad just kept reading the newspaper. Trying not to watch. Trying not to see what was happening right in front of him. Trying not to believe he'd helped make this happen.
I've never forgiven myself for that. I've tried. I know he doesn't remember. He remembers the day I sat on his friends head. But he doesn't remember the day I hurt him. I'm glad for that.
I struggle to understand how I could figure out that anyway to get out of that house was a good way before my older brother has, especially when I was only two or three when we were taken from Mum. I was only five or six when Mum had to move across the country to get away from our stepmum, so she would stop taking her hatred of our mother out on us. So I don't understand how I saw what a shit deal living with our stepmother was before my brother did who is three years older. He's still living there. Twenty one this year and still living there.
He's worse than I am though. He bottles it all up like I do. Bottles everything up. But he doesn't have anywhere to pour it all out. I pour it into my writing. He doesn't have anything like that. He sings but he hates to and thinks he can't. He can draw but believes he can't so doesn't. He has the shittest job with the worst OH&S policies and he hates it. He has his playstation games but he doesn't get into them enough to really let it out through shooting NPCs. And what he does get out when driving is just yelling at random pedestrians for just wearing something stupid. Let alone when somebody actually does something wrong.
My older brother has admitted to me to having actually cut himself. Not accidentally, as in self harm cut himself. He only did it once. He wanted to know if it would give him the relief he'd heard it would. He told me it only hurt and made him feel worse. He told me not to do it, and asked if I had. I hadn't and still haven't. I don't want to and instead wear ties around my wrist that I pull and let snap against my skin when I'm feeling anxious. Which is a lot.
But yeah. I know I'm not the first to feel the way I do. I know I won't be the last.
There are people who have it a hell of a lot worse than me.
But right now, I just want to worry about me. Because sometimes I need to just worry about me and not everyone else and what they think and want and need.
I've been told that if anyone ever saw me upset, the whole world would have a bad day.
I'm a smiley, bubbly person. That's just how I am. I love to laugh. And I think I know why.
Because it feels like I've spent my whole life crying.