Brotherly love part 2

I have two older brothers. We are each separated by about 3.5 years. My oldest brother is seven years and seven days older than me. My blog has commented a lot on my childhood and what I now know were abusive aspects of it. However, it wasn't always abusive. There was a lot of love in my family. The photo dump in this post shows much affection. My father cradles a sleeping baby Joshua. My brothers are feeding me, playing with me, bathing with me, and, in general, doting over me. It may be a case of "they're cute when they're young," but it's hard to ignore this part of my reality. I was genuinely accepted and loved on when I was little.

At the top, there appears to be some play-acting. I'm about three years old and wearing a diaper (without a cover) which I don't need. Am I baby Jesus? Is Jon Joseph with his coat of many colors? Something odd is going on, but we're having fun. And I'm thankful my diaper stayed up. Jon and I often took baths together. Was it really necessary to save water? Or time? Maybe. But we did this many years. I used to rub the soap so much the water turned murky, and then Jon would complain of itching from the soap when he got in bed. We shared a bedroom and bunkbed those years. Well, I'm not sure what the arrangement was in the first house. I only remember the second house. Above, we look like lobsters. And I'm thankful the photo is so bad and the water is just right so nothing can be seen of little Joshua's emerging manhood. And then there's Jason with his animal-print pants. And Jon with a somewhat sinister look in his eye, perhaps a latent hint of what was to come.

As the years wore on, and as the youngest, I struggled to keep up. I was sick and nearly died from pneumonia when I was a baby. I even spent days in the hospital (we were traveling at the time) in a bubble. I was small but wanted to pull my weight, even though my brothers made me feel like I was the eternal tag-along. We played games, and I was not always invited to play. How many games are for three? But we had fun. We played sock wars, where we raced around the house, slipping on the hardwood floors, and tried to bean each other with rolled-up socks. We played steamroller on my parents' bed. It was often rough, but we all survived. And had a blast. 

Some will say I lie and my childhood was not abusive. I wish that was the case. It took me decades to get to the point where I could reluctantly admit what happened. I understand others may never get there, but I'm the only one who has to process what happened. Still, let me point out love bombing is an important part of abuse (specifically trauma-based mind control). It makes the child love and trust the abuser, which makes the abuse is more effective. It splits a child's personality when they trust their abusers because the victim cannot understand why someone whom they love and trust is doing that. It causes dissociation very quickly because the young mind cannot hold two opposing viewpoints. It also ensures those we love in the future are also our abusers because that makes sense in our economy. Thankfully, I've seen reintegration of the parts that were split in childhood due to my walk with God (which is a miracle because victims of abuse often struggle with their relationship with God). Praise God.

The Book Whose Mouse Are You? was one of my favorites when I was little. I kept it and now read it to my son. If you are unfamiliar with the book, the titular mouse is basically family-less and alone until he rescues his entire family. It's not hard to see how it resonated with me. Seeing other's needs instead of my own was something I learned early in life. And, well, I was attracted to the very '70s colors of the book.
  
My takeaway from looking through thousands of photographs over a few short days is this: I was a neglected microcosm of a suffering God-husband-wife-children relationship/chain of command. Our family was not perfect, but it didn't have to be like it was. My parents should have divorced. There was more than enough reason for my mother to divorce my father, and not least of which was his threatening to kill his boys, his wife, and himself. (Incidentally, my ex also threatened my life more than once.) He was a womanizer, a cruel brute, and was neglectful of his husband/father duties. That realization is one reason why I left my ex-wife. I would rather have nothing than that sort of situation replay itself. I cannot be with someone unless she and I are at least trying to be right with God. Anything less is destined for destruction.

Another takeaway is how I choose to frame what happened in my childhood. I can look at pictures like this and accept them for face value. I know I was loved. I know the other stuff, too. Everything is forgiven. I choose to keep the happy memories and forget the unhappy as much as humanly possible. My interpretation of my childhood is the most important thing, and it is this: I was loved and the rest isn't important. Life is short, so I'm determined to do the best with my remaining years. The Bible says to pray for those who despitefully use and persecute us, and by doing so, we become the children of God. I include all those who I think have done me wrong in my prayers for this reason. Sometimes boundaries are needed, but prayers can always be offered, if only from a distance. I can't change the family I was born into, but by praying for them, I belong to a heavenly family — and am closer to my Heavenly Father. (Matt. 5:44-45)

Thank you for reading, and God bless.