Content note: this piece contains explicit descriptions of physical and emotional abuse .
My parents' neglect and years of physical and emotional abuse from my brother haunt me to the point of not trusting people, which is perceptible. I’m 40 years old, and I haven’t been in an intimate relationship that lasted more than three months, largely because of my issues with trust. I detach from others, not allowing myself to trust them or exposing myself; I’m not able to let my guard down as my family of origin literally kicks me in the balls, so I don’t expect better from strangers.
There is also the fact that Brazil is one of the most socially unequal countries, and to have a girlfriend, you need money because men are expected to pay during dates. The hardship of getting attached, coupled with mental illnesses, also affects my professional life turning everything in an everlasting cycle of numbness, sorrow, and fear.
My brother Julio once threw two punches at me, which I dodged. My grandfather held me in an attempt to break up the fight, but Julio used my immobility to kick me in the balls. I felt a sting that started in my testicles and went up my body, entering in shock. I went to the floor, and I started crying, and after my mother got home from work I was taken to the hospital to see if everything was fine, especially since I’d already gone through two surgeries in the testicles in the previous two years.
On my way to the hospital, my mother instructed me to lie to the doctors that somebody kicked a ball that had hit me as I was playing soccer. This was not my first trip to the hospital after a beating; I was told to say the same the next day at school. Those who worked at the hospital and the school already knew that I wasn’t as healthy as the other kids, but they couldn’t figure out the exact physical and mental illnesses that afflicted me and caused me pain. This misinformation made things more complicated for them.
I was 16 years old, four years younger than my brother. The doctor asked me over and over what had happened. I answered as instructed, believing that my mother knew best. That night, my mother told me that Julio was sorry and couldn’t stop crying from repentance, but his tears were mostly about a fear of going to jail.
In the following days, Julio would come to me with poor puppy eyes, and the “altar boy” would go to mass on Sunday to pretend he was changing his ways. His attack on my balls started after he came home from college and started calling me “Wonder Woman” since I liked reading comic books. Alongside the TV set and the Nintendo, they were my escape from my middle-class prison, where I would get gifts from time to time.
After his abuses, he would be nice, as is so often the case, even in toxic homes and relationships. Not every day is horrible; there are even moments of some bliss, but this is how abuse works. Abuse exists as part of a cycle of not only beatings but grooming, apologies and pretending to care about the victim.
Some years later, I was told by a former friend of Julio’s that they thought his outbursts were due to his years-long endeavors to fit in with wealthy white kids, including trying to date blond girls who would turn him down in favor of those white friends. I also would be told that his aggressions would be targeted at people who couldn’t or weren’t able to fight back. His psychopathic tendencies would only become worse when fueled by alcohol and drugs.
My family is middle class, but we are also Black. in Brazil, it is rare to see Black people in this social stratum, and it was even more scarce decades ago. Julio was trying and still tries to be accepted by his buddies, but he is a cheap, melanized copy of them who believes he was German in a previous incarnation. Meanwhile, my mother and father have long been too busy — and in too much denial — to notice that depression, PTSD, migraine bouts, and anxiety have taken a severe toll on me. My issues would end up interpreted by seemingly clueless psychologists who tried to paint me as queer as the apparent source of all my struggles. But I’m not queer, and I know that even if I was, it wouldn’t be the problem; being queer, after all, is not a sickness.
In a country where machismo is part of the culture, many see vulnerability as weakness, as a trait associated with feminized lives and bodies, therefore if you are not a woman, then you are “queer” in the eyes of a brutalized society where I found psychologists, priests, and teachers who tried to pin me under a group that I don’t below as it was easier than to question what was going on at my home.
When I am struck in the face, it can be considered a movement to nullify my personality. When hit in my genitals , it is a way to emasculate me and for Julio to assert his rank in the hierarchy of our family and of cultural gender ideals. Outside the household, he would become overprotective, like a caring older brother who would disguise his vile as “tough love” while threatening me with other beatings. I knew that I had to evade him at all costs, and when possible, I stayed with my grandparents or a friend. However, I couldn’t ever stay outside for long, and he would tell my parents that I “belonged” with them. They chose to present that as him being caring rather than as someone who couldn’t let his obsession escape, who he craved for his human punching bag. This was also likely why he preferred it was he who abused me, not anyone else.
I have never brought a girlfriend home, and besides being unable to stay for too long with the same person, I don’t want to open the door for my family to meet them and damage their lives as they have mine. I would introduce someone to my grandparents, but they’ve been dead for more than a decade and I have to cover tracks of my activities outside our “family.”
If Julio knows that I’m a regular at a home theater, a gym, or a nightclub, he will go there vying to live my life and try to befriend my friends, especially if there are any girls he has an interest in. In the past, he used to ask me to introduce him to my women friends, something that I always avoided, even more after overhearing a phone conversation where he told me he was about to beat down a girl for arguing with him.
I don’t speak much when my family is close. I have a hard time letting people touch me, and in Brazil, people are always touching you when talking to you. Since I always have to defend myself, I became more aware when the “touching” and “staring” came with ill intentions. Aside from that, I would take on martial arts and combat sports to try and do what I could to avoid being victimized again.
My body language announces my distrust of people. Once I enter a room or when other people show up where I am, I stand with my back against the wall and in a space where I can see everybody in said environment. I don’t like it when people come behind me, let alone touch my back. This obviously makes it tremendously hard to start new relationships.
During waking hours, there are times that I become static and lethargic. A crushing feeling takes over my body, and out of nowhere, I remember the violent episodes, and I feel a sting come over my balls. I have to do breathing exercises to get back to reality. If Julio appears in my dreams while sleeping, it is always a nightmare. I take sleeping pills almost daily.
Since I didn’t make it in my career, I’m getting older, living in the same household with the same people as many in Brazil in the middle and lower classes; it is not unusual to see two, three, or four generations living under the same roof. Meanwhile, Julio has left home. He fulfilled his dream of marrying a white girl who, on her turn, was diagnosed with depression, the same illness he laughed at me for having, and she can’t hold a job, something that he despises me for. As Julio passes as a normal human being, I believe she will be the next target of his abuses, yet I’m relieved that he is not as present as he once was. It is a great relief to me that he is not my problem anymore.
Although I despise Julio and my mother, because I’m not yet in the position to leave home, I have to treat them in a cordial way even when I know they stalk me on social media. They hit the like button in many of my posts, pretending to support my endeavors when, in reality, they are merely asserting that I am their territory.
I know that Julio and our mother won’t make amends or pay for the damage they have caused me, and looking back, I see that they made me keep quiet to not let the authorities know the abuse I was enduring. “What happens in the family stays in the family,” my parents would say. When they say it now, I know it is due to fear that I will come out publicly about my traumas.
The lack of money piled up with mental health problems and trust issues have prevented me from having a meaningful and long-term relationship. Hence, for 8 years, I’ve been seeing my psychologist, and there have been advances in knowing myself better, but I’m so damaged that there is a lot of work to be done before “finding my girl,” and I have already accepted that maybe there is no one out there for me. If one day I get away from my family and can support myself, I’ll be already victorious, and if there is also a girlfriend at the end of the track, it will be a happy ending, but my life has so far taught me to not expect them nor to trust people.
*I wrote this piece with a pseudonym and altered the name of my brother. Still, one day, my story will come out of the dark.
