He wasn't my brother when he slapped my mom because she wouldn't let him abuse his meds.
He was my big brother when he played with me on the long car ride
and we laughed
and I'll always remember that day.
He wasn't my brother when he stole the car
and he crashed and got a DUI
and he went to jail
He was my big brother when he gave me a hug when I visited him in prison
and I loved it
but it broke my heart.
He wasn't my brother when he locked me in the closet when I was four
because I poked him
and set him off.
He was my big brother when he beat up my dad
for hitting me.
He wasn't my brother after my aunt died
and he wouldn't talk or leave his room
and I didn't see him for weeks.
In between mania and depression, I see little glimmers of my big brother.
I have learned to treasure these moments
and hold onto them whenever he disappears
because I have no idea when he'll come back.
It's torture seeing him so horribly sad,
it's terrifying to know what he is capable of,
but it's comforting to know what he can control.
It's hard to be told not to talk to him,
or to go hide in my room
for my own safety,
because my big brother is kind-hearted
and he loves me
and I love him.
But the monster he becomes
is hard to love.
But it's not his fault,
which makes it harder.