Sometimes when I look at my hands I want to cut them off. Not literally, of course. I quite like my hands. The usefulness of them, not the way they look. My right hand has three crooked fingers, my pointer finger, index, and middle. They broke, along with my arm, when I got in a fight with some older boys when I was younger. (journal entry 8)
Both my hands have a few jagged scars from falling, running into things, or punching something that looked a lot softer than it felt. There’s one scar though, on my right hand, that fills me with disgust. Shame. It makes me angry at myself, and I can’t stand to look at it without feeling immensely guilty.
My little brothers always had a temper.
He’s only three years younger than me, and you’d be surprised to know we were even related. He’s a big kid, and he’s always been big. I was a bit of a late bloomer, that didn’t stop me from trying to get tougher. I’d always tell my mum when he’d be in his room, upset over something not going his way. Maybe I’d smacked him on the head a little too hard or used up all the battery on the best Xbox controller, but it always ended with me saying “he needs to know his place!”
He has a temper, and it’s easy to see he gets it from our mum. I know, that’s he’s always hated that they’re so similar.
When we were younger, he had no control over his anger. He’d break things and throw fits, and it was almost impossible to calm him down.
As his older brother, it was my job to rein him in. To teach him good from bad, I was a ‘role model’. My mother always used to tell me when I got short with him- “he’s your baby brother. He looks up to you. You’re what he’s got now.”
It didn’t seem fair at the time, how I was the one responsible for him, even though I was still young.
We were both kids. Nothing made sense.
She’d tell us it’s normal for siblings to fight- to argue, but we should remember at the end of the day, we were family.
Unlike my mother and little brother, I didn’t shout and break things when I was angry or upset. Instead, I’d usually go sulk in my room or mumble to myself outside. I didn’t like hurting people, not with words, or physical pain. If I did, after my anger had passed I was left with a horrible heavy feeling in my gut.
He was bulkier than me when he got a little older. At 16, I was still pretty thin, but I was tall, and I did work out often. I only did it so I wouldn’t break any more bones. I wanted to be able to hold my own in a fight. I wanted to have control over my body and my actions, and working out was an outlet for my pent up teenage aggravation, as well as a way to get stronger. My mother would tell me whenever she came into my room, a crazed look in my eyes and body drenched in sweat, what I didn’t have in strength, I made up for in heart. I remember always scoffing at that. Having a good heart wouldn’t keep me safe in a fight. I couldn’t protect people with only a good heart. That’s not how this world worked, not now, and certainly not then.
While I was breaking my body trying to gain any kind of muscle possible, my brother was content with staying chubby. When he was 12 our father bought him a punching bag, one that hung from a wooden beam outside. Almost every evening he’d be out there, punching that bag like he was a bruiser.
I think, in the same way working out was an outlet for me, punching that bag was a way for him to let out all that anger inside him. It’s not something our mum had, and maybe that’s why she was so awful to us growing up. Maybe she just needed an outlet when she was young, and having kids to shout at occasionally just so happened to be readily available when things got too much. Because of this, my brother always used to say things about our mum- like saying she was a jerk, bossy, annoying, and once, he called her a bitch. Deep down, I felt the same. I loved our mum, and while often she could be cruel, there were moments that made me proud to be her son. Moments that made me happy to be with her, happy to have her.
Other times, there were moments where I felt awful. Things that I do, that make me realise, I’m her son.
Fighting was never my go to answer. If it could be avoided, I would. Sometimes, fighting back is an instinct. Sometimes, I feel the subtle control is have over my anger break. When I was young, this only happened when someone had said something about my mum. She was a horrible parent, but she was my mother. I loved her.
I’d fight for her, even if it was against my brother.
It wasn’t a major argument. It never started out that way. My little brother had a habit of leaving the bathroom door open. It wouldn’t be an issue if the door didn’t open outward, making it a bit of a hassle to walk around and miss.
It’d been the third time that day I’d told him to close it, and he’d said something snarky that made me twitch.
I told him to close it once more and he shot back in a shout. What he said I don’t remember, but it resulted in me stomping downstairs. I could feel the horrible anger rushing down my arms into my fist and he’d cussed something out- I don’t recall exactly, though it was something like “you and mum are both a pain”
Our mother rushed in at the shouting I remember, a bit annoyed.
I had barely pushed him, but it made him aggressive. He moved to punch me but our mum immediately came to break us up. My brother grabbed my shoulders and pushed me away pretty violently, and that flare of anger finally made my body move.
I didn’t even register my fist coming into contact with his face. His bottom tooth nicked my knuckle and I didn’t realise till after it had started to bleed. I pushed him against the wall and moved to punch him again, but our mother was crying, almost begging me to stop. My little brother was bleeding. A busted lip, bloody nose. The adrenaline was to much but seeing my mum crying like that made me back away.
I didn’t hate myself till later. In the moment, my brother holding his nose, my mother crying, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud.
It was disgusting. I felt like a monster.
But I was so proud of myself. I was smiling, and when my mum shouted, it fell on deaf ears. My hearing was clouded with white noise and I felt the bit of blood rolling down my fist. My clenched fist. Like I was going to hit him again, like I was ready for another burst of rage.
She asked me something after she sent my brother to the bathroom- the same loo the fight started over- to wash his face.
I remember laughing at her. I think I said something like “He deserved it!”
She was upset, and rightly so. She went on about how he was my brother, and there were better ways solving menial issues. I could only laugh, I could only smile and I couldn’t wipe it off my face. She told me “it’s almost as if your proud.” And I said “yea! I am!”
I knew I was in the wrong. I knew he was bleeding because of me.
“He’s upset. He looks up to you and he’s rightfully scared.”
It made me feel so proud of myself. Before, I could never strike any sort of fear into anyone. Knowing he was afraid, knowing he was hurt, and knowing that I did it, made me feel so proud, and so disgusted in myself.
I remember thinking “I’m such a monster” But I couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop laughing.
She told us we needed to apologise, and as stubborn as we both were, we half-assed an apology over E-mail.
A bandaid was all I needed, but that scar would stay there forever.
A reminder of how I needed to stay in control. I was my mothers son, and there is nothing worse than knowing what horrible things I’m capable of because of that.
This strength We have now, is not made for what we’ve used it for.
I was not in any danger. I was not in any threat. I hurt people only because i can, how awful is that?
Even though we are older now, and I’m sure he barely remembers over the countless other fights we’ve had, I still feel guilty. I don’t feel any less like a monster than before.
That’s why I need to have control, and I know it seems like I want it because I’m a nihilistic piece of lanky garbage, but it’s only so I don’t muck something up again. Walking on eggshells is no way to live life, but I can’t help it. I can’t help but be cautious, and that makes loosing control over my emotions even worse.
I can’t let that happen again.
My thoughts are my only enemies.
