You fucking asshole.

You’re 8 years older than me. When I was 2 you were 10. When I was 5 you were 13. When I was 10 you were 18. You were always old enough to know better. To know not to hit me. You knew you were bigger than me and stronger than me and older than me, and you never stopped using that to your advantage. But you played the part of “perfect kind brother” so damn well you even had me fooled. I grew up thinking that we just fought a lot, but never stopped to think about the age difference, or who was actually doing the hurting. I constantly made excuses for the bruises and scratches you’d leave on my body without even a second thought. Because of you I grew up believing my passions were insignificant, and that my talents were actually my weakness, and that they were something I should be ashamed of. I’m still ashamed of all the things I should be proud of. But what I’m most ashamed of is having to replay the memories in my mind of the abuse. And having to remember the way you convinced me to take off my shirt so you could play with my breasts when I was child, all while you convinced me it all was a game. It makes me sick, knowing that this is the kind of human being you are, and having to sit back and watch while you start a family of your own, while I sit in fear, knowing the shit I’ve been through, petrified that someday they might have to go through the same pain I once did!

So I can’t walk away. I’d feel too much guilt. I feel such an obligation to your wife and your son to protect them, because IF something happens, and they go through what I went through, I don’t want them to feel as alone and helpless as I did! But I’m running out of the energy to pretend. I hate having to see your face, having to spend time around you, when the truth is you are my abuser. I hate living in fear. I hate that you taught me to hate myself.

I hate you, you sick twisted bastard.