My sister, whom I wrote of in an earlier post, is violent. She dedicated her young life to hitting and scratching me. By the time she was 12 she had long, sharp, pointed fingernails and she took great delight in using them as talons.
She liked to dig into the soft flesh of my arms just below the elbows and rake her way down.
Yeah, she drew blood.
Sometimes I hit back even though I knew it would just make it worse. At least I got to inflict some pain back.
She’s four years older than me. When we were young she was bigger and stronger. And she was the favorite.
Near as I could figure it, she was the favorite because my parents first child, a boy, died after a few months. Dawn came along a few years later and lived.
By the time I got here the novelty had worn off. If memory serves my mom had a miscarriage back when I was seven. It did not have an impact on how I was viewed.
Dawn is, or was, very smart. Book-learning smart I called it because she doesn’t seem to be able to apply what she’s learned to actual, real life situations. I don’t for a moment believe she has a lick of common sense.
So there she was smart, popular and could get away with doing or saying just about anything. If I spoke up around company my mom would turn to me and ask, “How do you know so much?”
Dawn would come out with some ridiculous torn-from-the tabloid-headlines comment and the conversation turned to it.
She beat me quite regularly. I figured it out once to an average of 2-3 times a week until I was 10 years old. We moved into a larger house when I was ten and I had room to avoid her.
Sometimes she pounded me with her fists, but for the last few years I was raked or gouged by her fingernails. The scratches and gouges were deep and lasted several days. I’d get a fresh batch before any had a chance to heal.
I was ashamed of them. I thought if anyone could see them they’d know I deserved them so I covered them up.
In Gr. 4, irrespective of the weather I wore three layers, a turtleneck, a shirt over it and a sweater over the shirt. I was scared that everyone could still the long hideous scratches on my arms.
I’m no longer ashamed of this and haven’t been for many years now. Her anger, jealousy and inability to deal with me, or almost anyone for that matter, are her problems, not mine.
She is insane. It wasn’t discovered until her teen years, but if you ask me, she was nuts from birth. Oh, if anyone out there has a problem with my use of the slang term “nuts,” feel free to call me out on it.
I lived as the preferred target of a violent, mentally ill sibling. I’ve got a right to say what I like about mental illness, and there’s not much anyone can do or say to me that’ll bother me.
If you want mental illness treated with sensitivity, you won’t get much of it here. I’m speaking for the sane ones like me out there that no one thinks about.
More information about sibling abuse here
and here’s a news article about an abused sibling: