Eight ago my mom was pregnant, she was to give birth to a weird little thing that I call my little brother. That little thing quickly became the most important creature for me, not because he shadowed everyone else but because he had the biggest effect on my life on the personal level… A mix of parental affection and gratitude that I feel for him.
Parental affection because I am after all his big sister, the one he comes to sleep with when he sees bad dreams at night. I am exactly 14 years 7 months older than him, after his mother, my face is the one he has seen the most in his life (I wonder what can such an innocent creature have done to deserve such a punishment!)
Gratitude. Gratitude because he has taught me so much about myself. He taught me that I can be useful and deserve the love that I receive, at that time I believed no one loved me except for the people that felt sorry for me, because I was such an ugly weird and meaningless creature that only existed to hurt others. He also taught me that I am not great either, it’s a funny thing but I felt most of all guilty because I believed I was created for so much greatness and failed so miserably to achieve that. And my little brother was the ultimate proof that I could have a positive effect on anyone. With time, he also became the ultimate proof to my incapacity to raise a healthy child and overcome my anger problem… But he still loves me never the less. I am also grateful to him because he taught me how easy it is to live unconditionally, to sacrifice for those we love and how we can sometimes stand and defy others just to protect a child that we love.
When my brother was a 3 months old fetus I tried to kill myself for the first time and if there’s a lot that I have forgotten, I didn’t forget a have written for the mass of cells that would later turn into the great creature that I am proud to call MY LITTLE BROTHER. I told him how much I loved him and everything, I even wished that no one would ever tell him about me, but above all I wished for him never to go through the pain I was enduring. Somehow, by dying, I hoped I would prevent him from becoming like me. This thought among other ones, comforted me and gave me a fake sense of heroism in which my death would be the right thing to do, the best for all.
Last week I came to a conclusion: He’s heading to where I was 8 years ago and I can’t do anything to stop him. I can almost see myself again living it all again and no matter much I would try to pull him out, I can’t protect him from it.
The kid’s now 7 years old… Do you have any idea what that means? That means he’s 6 years away from that time. And he seems to be going right there. And what am I doing to protect him? Nothing at all! I can’t do anything because I don’t know what I can do, I never reached the source of my problem(s), I survived because I failed to die.