My brother was born just before I was two years old. As long as I can remember, he was getting the attention from our parents I wanted. I treated him like he was the enemy. He treated me like I was a fool because he knew it aggravated me. My parents' friends said we would grow out of it, but in my heart I vowed I would never like my brother.
When I was abused at 15, I didn't tell anyone. It was my secret. Even though I didn't like my brother, the rivalry and the cruel pranks would sometimes fade into the background. On one such occasion I told my brother that I had been abused. He didn't react with horror or even surprise. He just said, I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Bad idea! At the time I did not realize just how bad.
We got naked and beat each other off. He seemed to enjoy it. In fact he seemed in to it. Later I found out that in elementary school he had been abused by one of his teachers. The teacher would have him over to his house, give him alcohol, and have sex with him.
Our relationship went from bad to worst. I started making sexual advance on my brother and he objected. Sometimes I backed off and sometimes I didn't.
He told my sister, she told my Dad, and my Dad threatened to kill me if I touched my brother again.
Years passed, he went his way and I went mine. I got married and he was unable to come to terms with my marriage. He flew from out of state to come to the wedding, but he just was unable to get himself to go to the wedding.
My experiment with marriage failed. I started seeing a gay therapist and went through a coming out experience. I felt I was finally in a place where I could make peace with my brother. He was not interested. He was intimidated by my openly gay behavior.
He was very vulnerable and needy. He was also very empathic and intelligent. He had a steady boy friend who was very good for him. His boy friend knew how to care of him most of the time. One day my brother came home and he got the impression that his boy friend had cheated on him. It was not true, but he was totally irrational. He knew where a shotgun was kept. He put the barrel to his chin and pulled the trigger.
The shock of his death was beyond description. I had a sense of responsibility because I had treated him bad and abused him sexually. I could not think or feel. I was overwhelmed. I was still in therapy at the time and a few weeks later I called my therapist between weekly sessions and told him I had to see him as soon as possible. I woke that morning with a calm sense of resolve that I would go to the Golden Gate Bridge and jump off. I had the presence of mind to realize that I needed help. My therapist helped me acknowledge that I wanted to die and that it was a bad idea to kill myself. For the next six weeks I lived with a conscious desire to end my life and hung on to life with a reasoned sense that it wasn't a good idea to do so.
I numbed my senses by going to gay bathhouses. I couldn't feel. I could barely think. My therapist had me keep a journal. The writing helped some. Ultimately it was time and refocusing my attention that got me through.