The Love and Hate of Being Born

My mom was Fifteen years old when my oldest brother was born at least a month early. From his first breath he struggled to hold on to life but was not strong enough to stay with us and died after twelve hours, held by his Mom only once before being put on the incubation machine.

About fourteen or so months later, my next oldest brother was born, also about a month early. He too struggled to stay alive, and he finally took his last breath about twenty five hours after he took his first breath. My Mother disconsolate and went into a depression. She was only sixteen years old and had already lost two children.

When she was seventeen she became pregnant with yours truly. Her first two children were boys, and she had hopes that I would be a girl, so did her Mother (my Grandmother) and there were so many dresses made. When she went into labor a month early, she was terrified that this child too would die. When I was born alive and seemingly fully formed, I was immediately taken and put into the machine that would keep me alive. I was able to cling to life long enough to make it past the dangers of my premature birth.

As you can imagine, I was the miracle baby. I was so spoiled and wanted for nothing. Everyone wanted to hold me and see the child that defied all expectations. I was smart; I was special; I was my father's oldest son. I even got to wear the beautiful dresses that my Grandmother had made for the baby she knew would be a girl. :) It made for some embarrassing baby pictures, but the girls thought it was cute.

When my Mom became pregnant with my younger brother, it was determined the reason for all her problems was because my father and his family were abusive toward my Mom, so she moved back in with my Grandmother during her pregnancy. It must have been true because fifteen months after I was born, right on time my little brother was born. My little brother, the person that I loved and hated most in the world for so long; the person that ruined my life without even trying or knowing. He was so damn cute. With his curly black hair and cute baby face that is true even today, he was the epitome of cuteness.

What it meant for me is that I was no longer the miracle baby. I became the boy on the side, I was L—'s brother even though I was the oldest. Whenever anyone stopped it was to say how cute he was with his adorable hair and face and everyone always noticed his cuteness. He was cute. I know this sounds petty after all these years, but I want you to know that what I felt was strong even then. This was the beginning for me of not feeling worthy, of being insecure, of hating, and of hurting those that I loved and that loved me. These feelings persisted in me until I was an adult and in prison, feelings that affected my perception of who I was and my place in the world. These feelings that I realized much too late had nothing to do with my brother who never did anything but love me and put up with me for such a long time; it was all me.

I took it out on him though. From a young age, when I was angry, I would hurt him, physically to start with and psychologically later on. I remember our fights, in my heart there were no holds barred in my mind. When I raged, I wanted to hurt him. I have seen the pictures of when we were younger. The pictures that showed two happy laughing boys, but if you looked close at those pictures, you would see the blemishes on his face were actually from my nails or my teeth.

My brother whom I loved more than anyone; my brother who I would fight and die to protect; my brother, the only person to accept me for who I was; my brother was the first victim of my abuse. I abused my brother until I came to prison. It wasn't sexually, but that is not to take anything away from what I did. Abuse is abuse. My brother turned his back on me when I came to prison. I understand that. Recently we reconnected for awhile, but the gulf was too far gone, and we have since lost contact again. I pray he is well.

I see my beginnings here, in the seemingly innocuous rivalries of youth, in the little off-hand comments, in these was born the man who would later harm his own children; hell, here was born the man that would hurt anyone who ever loved him.

I have done so many evil things that it is no wonder that I am deemed an evil man who is without any saving graces by any who knew me then. The truth is that I never wanted to hurt anyone. My soul always rebelled at the things that I did; I was not strong enough then. There is no doubt that I needed (and deserved) to come to prison. Without it, I could not have changed.

I am by no means perfect and never will be. I do strive to be a good man, a man who will never harm another. I struggle some days especially in this place, but most days I am proud of the man I am becoming even these fifty years after the Love and Hate of Being Born.