I remember it like it was yesterday. It was my last day at work. I had been with the company for six months. Part-time contract. The funding had fallen through, so we didn't get it extended. It was sad. We enjoyed it there. (In fact, we are still volunteering there - and we are still loving it)
Nevertheless, we were gonna make it a special day. Try and forget the shit week we'd been having.
We'd been sofa surfing for the past week. Presented homeless three times, each time being knocked back.
In the whole of Edinburgh, there was no emergency accommodation available. The closest they could do was Livingston. Or was it Sterling? It was somewhere... … … somewhere outside the city. The only reason we even got that offer in the first place was because we were considered a vulnerable adult... adults. People.
But it was impractical. All of our support network was in Edinburgh. And as we have said, work commitments too.
So it was back to our mates. Had our work bag all packed and ready for the Thursday. Handover Day.
The day itself was lovely. Had a small leaving party. Plans with the girls to go to a pub quiz later that evening.
Then mum called.
The first time all week. It had pretty much been radio silence between us, save for letting her know that we had arrived safely at where we would be staying.
She had insisted we did that. Didn't tell her where we were, mind. That was our prerogative. Plus, our friends wanted to remain anonymous. The last thing we wanted was them being dragged into a family feud... well, more so than they had been already.
We were so apprehensive. Our veneer of confidence - that we were fine. No... … Really. We were fine. - stripped away in seconds.
We were in the office. Just us and one other colleague, and they spotted the switch instantly. The stutter. The slumping back into the chair. Spinning from side to side on the black pleather swivel... … … staring wide-eyed at the screen.
We were tempted to let it ring ou---
Kitty hijacked… And answered.
She'd missed Mum the most. Ironic... … … Since Mum had expressed an active dislike towards Kitty and insisted we go to therapy to make Kitty permanently disappear.
It was ... … … we don't know. Honestly, we don't know. So many mixed emotions all at once. Though she couldn't talk for long. She was on her lunch break.
We spent the rest of the day fretting. No clue as to what to tell her.
Mum assumed this was an immature temper tantrum. "Running away" after a mere argument, blissfully ignorant that her months of micro and passive aggressions towards our system made living at home untenable. It had gotten so bad that three separate health professionals deemed the household not safe to live in, with one therapist even citing home safety as incompatible with regular therapy.
When we told our parents that routine therapy was off the cards, we were met with disappointment and judgment that we were being difficult and dragging our heels.
We didn't tell them the truth. The real reason. We couldn't. So, instead... We lied. To protect our family, we lied … and it only made matters worse.
To protect our family, we made ourselves out to be the problem child. Because it was easier than telling them the truth.
So anyway... … … the 27th.
The pub quiz was great... … … For the first half, anyway.
After that, though, the evening took a decidedly sour turn when this message came through.
This lovely message... … … was from our brother... … …
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How dare you treat Mum this way. She carried you around for 9 months,
And the only reason Mum & Dad aren't still wiping your arse at 26, Is because Rachel Reeves does,
I hope she takes away all your PIP, So you'll finally have to grow up, And you can still go to therapy,
I bleed through my arse to pay for mine, so I can keep providing for my family. What do you do?
And, as I believe that true emotion cannot be expressed by language alone, I've got a playlist for you. Listen to it, when you're not too busy relaxing. And the last one is a lullaby. Go home, you've got stuff to do before bedtime.
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We've not seen him in person for … seven years? He lives on the other side of the world, in Chile, with his wife and family.
He would only message us occasionally. We would swap messages, usually around birthdays, or if something major happened. Though even then that was no guarantee. We would often be left on read for months at a time.
So … imagine our surprise when we got that message.
Our first reaction was the worst. Our foot slammed the hardwood floor, sending a painful jolt up our leg. We gritted our teeth through the pain as we read the words over and over and over again.
Each word, insult, accusation, critique felt like he had taken a butcher's knife and carved it into our flesh.
Moral judgements from him?! Him?! Him who treated us like we were nothing but shit growing up. Who actively sought out a surrogate sibling from a complete random stranger when we were 16. Who went so far as to practically adopt a 16-year-old to be the brother he never had. The brother he had always wanted. Then, after that relationship ended in flames, took us back without so much as an apology or a concern for how the bastard - him, not the stranger - had ruined things between us.
Our relationship was on the knife's edge after that. And now that knife had been used to stab us so hard in the back that it plunged straight through our heart and burst out of our chest, making sure to pierce every artery for good measure.
Our work colleagues noticed our reaction and asked what was wrong. And we showed them. Oh, maybe it was airing our family's dirty laundry in public, but... … … Rouge was all too eager to confront him. To send back some retort, dragging him for everything he had ever done. The word CUNT escaped their lips. Furiously. It was a word we seldom used. But when we used it... … … well, anyway. Rouge wanted to make him hurt and suffer and … and …
Blocked.
We blocked him. It took a few attempts to calm down. Stormed outside into the pissing rain. Two colleagues came to console us. Told us not to let this spoil our night. Not to let his cruelty undermine all the hard work we had done these past six months.
It's funny. He knew how to press every last button. He knew how to diminish all our personal achievements as if they were nothing.
Due to health reasons, FND, seizures, severe aphonia, among everything else, we were deemed limited capacity by UC.
So we decided to throw ourselves into voluntary work. To give back to society. To make a difference. To use our free time and make our family proud of us.
And while they would often say they were proud, their routine dismissive comments said otherwise. You can't live off volunteering. You need to find a proper job. Your emotional burnout is your fault. You're working hard, not smart.
At the time, we had three volunteering jobs and a part-time job. We were a peer support worker for a drug and alcohol harm reduction charity, a mentor at a secondary school and a radio DJ. We were also doing regular courses to build new skills and were a consultant on National Museum Scotland's LGBTQIA+ Hidden Histories trail.
And then this job, of course, made four.
This job was made specifically for us, because they wanted us on their team. Working with the charity that nominated us for an Inspiring Volunteer of the Year award... a reward that we won.
No. He is right. They all are. We are lazy. We don't contribute. We are not living up to our full potential.
We are so lazy that the peer support work role limited all volunteers to do no more than three shifts a week ... … … after we spent a month - last summer - working three to four days a week, on top of what we were doing with other jobs.
We learned later that this was an unspoken rule. One that was never enforced. It had no reason to have been. Not until we started working there. Not entirely sure if that is the highest of compliments or something to be ashamed about.
Anyway... … … blocked.
We blocked him.
… … … and then Mum called.
Turns out we weren't the only ones to receive this message. He'd sent it to her.
We just ignored the call. We couldn't deal with that. Not with everything else going on.
Then she messaged. Immediately.
We didn't respond. We just saw the frantic typing and stream of messages. One after the other after the other.
Told me she had nothing to do with his message.
That she didn't condone it. The content. The implications. The classist, elitist, shaming rhetoric. And that she was furious.
Do you want to know the funny thing? … … …
In a weird way, this message reconnected our family.
At least ourself and mum. But not in the way he would have thought: We were united because we were both royally pissed at him.
This is conjecture, but... … … we think it might have highlighted to Mum how close we were to cutting ties with her completely. Both her and dad.
Things between us have been... … … getting there.
Slowly.
There is so much to rebuild.
Every now and again, she drops hints that we should speak to our brother. To bury the hatchet. Draw a line in the sand, because after all, we are siblings.
However... … … We haven't been siblings for years. It is only now that we are at peace with this fact.
Or else... … … as close to peace as therapy allows.
Yes. We are in therapy. In a new home. With our partner. And it is honestly... … … yeah. We are in a better place. But not a stable one. Not quite yet. This is the healing phase.
And healing means processing everything.
Including this.
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