I was six when my brother was born. There are stories that say I didn’t want a brother, and asked to put him back. That did eventually change.

What I didn’t know at the time was that having a brother would significantly change the way my family looked at and interacted with me.

By the time I was eight, I was responsible for the majority of the cooking, and all of the cleaning in the house. Food was often scarce, so I had to make do with what I could find. Cleaning up after everyone was more difficult than you might think. My dad was usually out most of the day, working whichever job he had at the time. But my mom and brother were around all day. I was supposed to make sure everything was clean, the dishes were done, and dinner was made, by the time my dad got home. In the summer, I was supposed to do all of this while also not being allowed in the house during the day. If I didn’t get it all done, I was punished. Punishment came in a couple of forms, but were usually used together. There was the yelling and screaming at me about what a waste I was, how lazy, stupid, incompetent. You get the picture. Then there was the belt. Always the belt. Almost always on my bare ass. If I cried during any of this, it just got worse. I learned to keep it to myself, most of the time anyway. Unfortunately, these punishments happened often, and not always for not completing a chore. Sometimes it was just for not completing it as fast as dad thought I should.

One summer day, I snuck into the house during the day to try to get some of the work done, so that I could stretch it out a bit. I was doing the dishes (handwashing since we didn’t have a dishwasher – not even sure I knew what one was at that point) when my dad came home for lunch. I shouldn’t have been in the house during the “light” hours, and I was not working fast enough anyway. I took my punishment and went back to finishing the dishes, and dad went back to work.

I was standing at the sink, silently sobbing. Wondering what I did that deserved the belt. I was washing a knife and began thinking that I could just make it all go away. All it would take was a couple slices. They had my brother, the golden child, the male they wanted. They didn’t need me, they didn’t want me. I was just the servant they kept around so they didn’t have to do so much work. I took that knife, I held it to my wrist. I added pressure and began to make a cut. Just as I drew the first drop of blood, a friend walked in, saw what I was doing, and grabbed the knife, hurting himself. He didn’t ask questions. He washed, dried, and put away the knife. Then he took me down to the park and took my mind off things. He probably doesn’t remember the difference he made that day, he might not even remember me at all. But I will never forget the boy who saved my life that day. I think of him often. We had many other interactions in the six years or so. Some of them as significant, at least to me, as that one. He was a really great kid, in a really shitty situation, that helped me through the minefield of my own shitty situation. Don’t know that I ever thanked him for that. I sure hope I did.

So, sorry. I guess I jumped right into the dark shit. This memory has been coming back to me a lot recently, and I’m hoping that getting it out will help it move on. Thank y’all for putting up with me, my darkness, and my rambling.