by Lynda Lampert

Created on: September 19, 2009

I remember very clearly how my father would to hit my brother. My brother is two and a half years younger than me. He was always rambunctious and rebellious. My father lived to snuff that out.

One day my brother kept idly hitting a broken cabinet door with his foot. This prompted an explosion of rage from my father. He did warn him, I suppose, but the torrent of closed-hand blows he rained down on my brother was brutal. My brother huddled beneath the pummeling, in a fetal position, until the rage was spent. I felt scared, powerless, and sad. How could he so hurt someone he was supposed to love?

My father also had a problem with my brother "chomping". Due to undiagnosed and largely ignored head and sinus trouble, my brother could not breathe when he ate unless he chewed with his mouth open. You could always tell he was ready to hit my brother because he would move things out of the way. I once moved a salt shaker in front of him and declared "checkmate". He stifled his laugh because he was supposed to be angry. It didn't stop him from backhanding my brother, though.

Oddly, he never hit me. There was a certain respect for me that he did not have for my brother - and possibly my mother. I viewed him as beneath me. He was smart - like I am. He suffered from depression - like I do. We both liked reading and the History Channel. I could have loved him . . . but I did not.

I used to stand at the bottom of the stairs and listen to him rail at my mother over some imagined slight. He hated my mother's family - a group of people that I venerated and adored. He would blame her from their comments, their hatred of him. They saw clearly that he was a troubled, angry, abusive man. But my mom loved him, and who can argue with that madness?

Living with him was a torment. Often he and I would get into screaming matches. The worst he did to me was shove me. Once, I attacked him in a desperate attempt to hurt him as he hurt others. He bowled me over, his hands on my neck. He stopped himself with my mother's pleas. That was the only time he was physical with me.

When my mom got sick, she was finally willing to let go of the charade. He didn't want to take care of her and didn't want to deal with my sister who suffered from a heart condition. It behooved him to move out, though he made it seem like her idea, her fault. I was glad. I would take care of my mother and sister both if it meant he would not hurt them anymore.

Of course, the hurt continued. He would call my mom and yell

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