Even the words sound bitter on the tongue. Compulsiveness makes you think of a rash decision, a sentence that spiralled out of control.
When I think of my little brother, I remember a laughing, beautiful boy that loved me unconditionally.
Now everything has changed.
At age eleven I was diagnosed with epilepsy. That epilepsy became me.
I was re-defined by the illness I had. When my parents looked at me, it was no longer with the stability that I was a child, learning and growing on the steady path of life.
I was a whirlwind of an ever-changing emergency. I couldn't be controlled. In truth I frightened them and the more I hurt, the more they hurt. The more they watched me.
At that tender age, it wasn't noticed much by either of us. Not me, nor my brother.
But now as I reflect, at that age he was already slipping in-between the cracks.
The guilt I felt and feel now, was and is overwhelming.
While I fell to the floor, with the flashing blue lights crowding me nobody noticed the little boy that ran sobbing from the room, terrified by the noise his sister was making.
Nobody noticed that he had begun to struggle at school.
His attention ebbed at school; his temper at home ran short.
So now I have noticed, I now am left to wonder.
Is it too late?
The little brother that I used to be inseparable from argues constantly with me.
He lies, twists the tale to cast a dark shadow over the arguments.
I know I'm not all perfect - I've made the mistake of rising to the argument and we've both said horrible things.
I've called him names - you little git, you idiot, you fool.
I have no excuses. Everything laid bare.
I just want the lies to end, I want him to see that it's not my fault.
Our parents love him just as much. It's just that I'm more hassle, sweetheart. I stress them out. They're most likely relieved you're there.
You don't have to fight for their attention, or for mine. You're my little brother. And you're the best.