Content warning: This article discusses abuse. The other day, one of the kids I care for asked me whether I would rather never eat Nutella again or never see my older brother again. She’d been asking me countless “Would You Rather” questions, leaving me struggling to pick between various hypotheticals she’d been presenting me with. However, when she asked me to choose between a delicious hazelnut sweet and my estranged older brother, I picked Nutella without even skipping a beat. While this nine-year-old was baffled that I’d choose Nutella over my own sibling, it runs way deeper than just a silly question.
My brother and I have never gotten along. Of course, when I was a baby, he adored me — even telling my parents that he wanted to live with me when we grew up, so he never had to be apart from me. But the second I was able to walk, his constant antagonization and bullying started. I often felt like this sibling rivalry happened due to our genetics: My mom didn’t have a relationship with her brother, my dad with his sister, and my grandma with her sister. I’d always joked that I was “next in the bloodline” to be estranged from a family member. It felt unavoidable, honestly.
We’d get into physical fights as kids, with him calling me names and slapping me while I pulled his hair, but this didn’t stop once we reached our adolescence — even with him being four years older than me. The names would just intensify the older we got. I went from just being called “stupid” to being told to end my life, that I was fat and obese, adopted (I’m not, BTW), the reason my parents divorced — the list goes on.
As he reached adulthood and I was newly entering my teenage years, our fights didn’t stop; they’d just become more frequent. Constant screaming, throwing things, insults, broken dishes. It even got to the point where we had to start going to my dad’s house on different days — ignoring my parents’ legal custody agreement — because my brother and I couldn’t stop fighting.
Over the years, I’ve learned that my older brother isn’t capable of being a different person, and he’s proved that too many times to gain forgiveness.
When my brother finally went away to college, life felt… freeing. But with his college life came a lot of changes. He eventually came home from his conservative college with a whole new belief system — which included being pro-life with no exceptions, thinking gay marriage should be illegal, and being firm in the “trad-wife” lifestyle with his new girlfriend.
And with these newfound beliefs came countless arguments about them. Arguments about why I believe gay people should be allowed to marry each other, or why I think it’s OK for a woman to go back to work after having kids, or why I believe abortion is healthcare. I even had to go so far as to explain why I think divorce shouldn’t be outlawed, especially given that our parents are divorced.
But it seemed as though, no matter what I’d say, nothing could convince my brother to change his mind. Any time I’d interact with him, I’d be reminded of these beliefs — it was always a thought in the back of my mind. I was disgusted knowing how much hatred he harbored in his body for others and the misogyny that somehow became normalized to him.
And after having a crying breakdown in front of my entire family after yet another instance of his constant abuse, I finally decided to cut him off for good, sending him a (rather lengthy) text telling him that I didn’t want a relationship with him. His beliefs disgusted me, and his actions hurt me, both physically and emotionally.
About a year ago, I was getting lunch with my aunt when she asked me why I didn’t have a relationship with my brother. And after years of deflecting, lying, and making excuses, I finally opened up to her — and she did the same. Throughout this conversation, I learned that my aunt had cut off my dad for the exact same reason: unwarranted physical aggression, verbal threats, constant insults, horrifyingly different beliefs.
It took me twenty years to learn that family isn’t a free pass for cruelty, but in the end, I didn’t lose a brother — I left an abuser.
It made me wonder if it was genetics or if, somehow, abuse was ingrained in the way we were raised: raised to think that this was normal. Forced to accept apologies and to embrace the “forgive and forget” lifestyle even if you truly never do forget. Being manipulated into believing that, because I was “annoying,” my brother had the right to put his hands on me. Remembering the constant racism and hatred for minorities that my dad would integrate into our lives as kids, even if it was subtle. Being punished for retaliating after my brother hit me.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel guilty sometimes. Any time he comes home to visit, my body fills with guilt when he tries talking to me, and I just don’t respond. He’s tried apologizing time and time again, but I know his apologies don’t mean anything — because my guilt doesn’t equal regret, and his apologies never equal change.
Over the years, I’ve learned that my older brother isn’t capable of being a different person, and he’s proved that too many times to gain forgiveness. The constant anxiety, the bruises, the insults, the casual homophobia and misogyny, the screaming fights and broken dishes weren’t normal sibling behavior. They were instances of abuse, and it only took me over two decades to figure it out.
Yes, I cut off my toxic older brother. Do I feel bad? Sometimes. Do I regret it? Absolutely not. I’m no longer someone who will tolerate abuse, make excuses for it, or pretend that it’s normal, because it’s not. Maybe being “next in the bloodline” wasn’t about inheriting estrangement; maybe it was about being the first person willing to call the abuse out for what it is. It took me twenty years to learn that family isn’t a free pass for cruelty, but in the end, I didn’t lose a brother — I left an abuser.
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic abuse, call 911 or the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1(800) 799-SAFE (7233) or visit thehotline.org