About this blog
My brother shot my dad. My dad is gone. My brother isn’t taking any personal responsibility. My dad wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t an abuser. He was, in fact, the most selfless man I’ve ever met. The kind of guy who would see you were hungry and pull you in for a meal and a comfy change of clothes; a bed to sleep in, music to listen to, and stories to share.
I can’t go into detail because it’s an open investigation awaiting trial, but we gave my brother every opportunity, including bailing him out to handle his own affairs and get the therapy that isn’t available in jail and it backfired fantastically.
I and other family members are learning that our feelings don’t matter to my brother at all. He only feels that we should feel sorry for him because he’s claiming self defense against a fully unarmed man who he says was going to kill him. I have seen the footage. I unfortunately know exactly what happened and it doesn’t line up with my brother’s version of events.
I didn’t only lose my dad. I lost my brother. I tried to keep some contact despite my broken heart; I knew he hurt too and until recently I believed it was just a horrible accident or lapse in judgement: I may still be partially right about the latter, but the fact that even after killing our father, he is able to speak hatefully to me, about family members who are grieving, and even dole out death threats forces me to abandon all hope for miraculous mental healing.
The fact of the matter is, I’m having to practice saying out loud what I can still hardly believe: My dad was shot multiple times by my brother in front of my mother, and he told us yesterday that we’re not worth his time.
So why do I feel guilty?