Quit you like men

My brothers and I dressed in our Sunday finest.

Family get-togethers can be hard for me. As someone I once knew would say, "Going home reminds of why you left." And, for me, there were so many reasons. Why did I move more than 1,000 miles away from my parents and hours away from my brothers? Even though they were a day's drive away, I still didn't visit them unless I was rolling through on my way to some other place. Even then, I often wouldn't stop.

At first glance, it would seem that I'm a bad son and brother. I can't really deny that, but there's more to the story.

I have two brothers; the oldest is seven years older. The other is three and a half years older. I was never unaware of my status as the youngest, the smallest, the runt. It was constantly reinforced. When my brothers got BMX bikes, I got a retro girly-looking thing. With training wheels.

Hot Liner. All the kids wanted one, right?

Perpetually tagging along and running behind, I tried my best to keep up, but it was never enough. When my whole family went for a bike ride, they argued over who would lag behind with me. When we went for a hike, I was a half mile behind, not even sure where I was going.

My words, my thoughts, my ideas, my songs (I loved to sing, especially Stevie Wonder songs from the radio) were constantly derided, derailed, co-opted and spurned. I was told to "shut up" hundreds of times when I was growing up. I admit that last-borns can be obnoxious at times, but it was an excessive amount of shushing. To this day, my mom wonders aloud why I don't talk much. Does she not remember telling me to be quiet so many times? When I do talk, she interrupts, like I'm not even talking. She then complains that it's like "talking to herself." I don't have the heart to tell her why.

My brothers ridiculed me and punished me for my very existence as often as they could, even within earshot or within view of my parents. I believe that children will find a way to negotiate and end squabbles on their own, but these weren't squabbles. This was daily warfare, and I turned myself into a missile to destroy them. It was routine that I would come away bruised and bleeding. How could a game of "bloody knuckles" end with me getting a bloody nose?

In 1984 when President Reagan was re-elected, I flew outside to tell my brothers (who were playing football on the front lawn) the news. They didn't listen. It was too early to tell. They didn't know that it was a landslide victory and it was clear early on that he had won re-election. They ridiculed me, berated me, silenced me. I stormed inside, looked in the refrigerator, and huffed under my breath, "Sometimes those guys make me so mad." My mom never forgot that. She wondered if I had felt that way, but she never said anything. Really, mom? Did you think I was immune to suffering?

When I biked (without stopping) up the hill to our house on Happy Hollow, which was a significant grade (and which they were never able to do), I was proud to tell my brothers. They told me I was a liar.

The middle brother was my primary tormentor and the primary reason why I have so much childhood trauma. He was constantly finding ways to inflict pain and suffering upon me, physical and psychological. He was my own Josef Mengele. One time he threw a large rock into the air, not caring where he threw it. He saw that it was to land squarely on me, told me to freeze, and I did. It hit me square in the back. He begged me not to tell anyone, and I didn't. Another time, he deliberately set my pet turtle, Scooter, free. Forever. I never found him. Another time we were riding our bikes and a dog attacked me, so I got off my bike and took off with him. He chided me and told me to go back for my bike, never offering to go with me in case the dog was still around. So much for a protecting older brother.

Me on the left playing the role of Tiny Tim.

The only time my brothers came to my rescue was when I agreed to fight some kids after school with my friend Matt and some of his friends. My brothers showed up and said I didn't need to fight anyone. I was glad, of course. Apparently, the only ones I could fight were them, and they were guaranteed to win.

Road trips were a nightmare. I was always banished to the rear of the station wagon or Suburban. One particular time I was told to shut up so many times that I went to the back on my own and wished with all my might that I would die so they would feel bad for treating me so awfully. I really wanted to die, and I had not yet lived.

Imagine these events not as isolated incidents but as daily occurrences. Imagine the toll it would take on a young man's brain. It's easy to see why I accepted jobs and relationships that were abusive, neglectful, and downright demeaning. That's how I was treated on a daily basis, and that's what made sense to me. Those who were supposed to protect you and love you were supposed to hurt, neglect, abuse, and traumatize you, right? 

I was taught to lose. To compete was to fail, and I learned this on a daily basis. I carried this with me through my life. I remember in middle school P.E. when our class was doing sit-ups to see who could do the most. I let myself fall one behind the leader, Neil M., even though I could have easily bested him. When I ran the 800-meter boys race in middle school, I came from behind and held myself up at the end so I wouldn't beat the leader, Chad A. We tied even though I could have beat him. Then I threw up. I had the heart of a champion but the head of a loser.

This is why I must sit still at this late point in my life and go no further. I must deal with these childhood traumas, most of them forgotten, if I am to get any further in life. It's true that my life has been very blessed in many ways. It's also true that I've compiled significant wounds that need to be dealt with. Finally. It feels like I've gone through most of my life bleeding. Now is the time to stop bleeding. Now is the time to heal.

In spite of my less-than-perfect childhood, I love my family. It might be okay if I don't see that much of them, though. It's not like they're straining to keep in touch anyway. I think there's a difference between forgiveness and leaving yourself open to further hurt. I have to forgive. But I don't have to let these people into my life.

What I learned more than four years ago is that it's hard to go back home. There are so many ghosts here, so many memories, so many people who have little pieces of my life. It will be okay when I someday say goodbye (again) to this place. It will be bittersweet, but it will be necessary, and it will be long overdue.

I can see those three boys playing in the setting sun. I can see them trying so hard to be men. If being a man means crushing the weak, then my brothers became men early. And I will never be a man. Not that kind of man. I'll be my own kind of man.