Why now?<\/p>\n
Why did I write all that now, and not before?<\/p>\n
It\u2019s hard for me to name a single reason, for there are many. Because I was prodded by the Gods to look into it, implying there is unresolved important stuff there that needs to be worked through, and I didn\u2019t because of various reasons, some of which might have been valid at the time but ceased to be so, and some were flawed and wrong from the beginning, but it just didn\u2019t come up before. Because the reason I didn\u2019t say anything was to protect my parents and my brother from the consequences of a public revelation of a very unpleasant truth, and I didn\u2019t think it was merely my own story to tell. Because I wanted to give them an opportunity to come forward, to repent, to say how sorry they were to slander me and sacrifice me to protect themselves. But that, obviously, was never to happen. Instead, I felt the slander ongoing, reiterated tenfold, decorated with all kinds of additional inventions to make it even more preposterous.<\/p>\n
But most of all, I am telling the truth because truth matters. Truth is what God is made of, while lies are of Satan. I\u2019m telling the truth because I am probably the only one who still knows it and remembers it, for my family of liars likely replaced it with their inventions decades ago.<\/p>\n
In that family, which used to be mine but no longer is, they didn\u2019t even have a proper concept of truth. My mother would lie, accusing me of something, and my father would come with his belt to beat me up. When I would try to tell the truth and vindicate myself, he would beat me up for what I was accused of, and then twice as much for \u201clying\u201d and \u201ccontradicting my mother\u201d.<\/p>\n
My brother quickly learned how that works, and then I was beaten up for doing whatever it was to make him cry, and then again for trying to \u201clie about it\u201d and not \u201cconfess\u201d. Soon, I stopped trying to tell the truth altogether, because nobody would believe me anyway, and I would be punished worse for it. I learned that truth is something nobody cares for\u2026 except for me. I cared, and I remembered, but I stopped trying to tell it. After all, when the liars cry with such convincing victimhood, trained with practice, who would believe me? But now, I stopped caring whether anyone would believe me, and I\u2019m telling the truth because I know it and it needs to be told, lest the liars write the story. Sure, they lied so many times and to so many people, everybody probably thinks it\u2019s the truth, but there\u2019s a difference now. They can no longer threaten me with consequences if I tell the truth. Sure, there will be consequences. They lost the option to come forward and tell the truth, finally. Any repentance they make will not be seen as sincere. But I gave them almost forty years, and the recent events where my asshole brother is trying to rob me of my share of inheritance, while his father knows about it all and does nothing, convinced me that their souls are past redemption, and consideration for their spiritual destiny is no longer something that should concern me.<\/p>\n
After all, they cared nothing at all for my spiritual wellbeing. They taught me to lie for them. They taught me truth is something I will get viciously punished for. They taught me to be callous and casually cruel \u2013 as a child I was chasing butterflies, and they encouraged me to catch them with a net, kill them and attach them with a pin to a styrofoam board they gave me for it. I look back at it with horror, because they could as easily have told me that it was wrong to kill other beings that are merely minding their own business in their meadow, and encouraged me to merely observe. Had I adhered to the upbringing they gave me, instead of overwriting it with my own, I would have ended up in hell, which is where they are heading \u2013 a hell meant for cruel, sadistic liars and psychopaths.<\/p>\n
One of my most traumatic memories happened after the suicide attempt. People would come to me \u2013 doctors, psychiatrists, judge, and they would ask me things like \u201cdo you still hate your brother\u201d, or \u201cdo you still want to kill him\u201d, and I would stare at them in shock, because I understood what happened. They told a story. It was common \u2013 they would tell a story about how bad I was and how they had to beat me up. It\u2019s not that they enjoy it or even like it, but I\u2019m forcing them to do it with my naughtiness, disobedience and \u201clies\u201d. This time, however, it was a hundred times worse. They told a story where I hated my brother and that\u2019s why I shot him, and he was complicit in the story. It was no longer separate \u2013 my mother lying to get father to beat the shit out of me while she almost orgasmed out of malicious glee while she watched, and my brother getting me in trouble with them so that he could get my stuff to play with. All three of them told a story together now, where I was the bad guy, and they are all victims. I was too shocked to contradict it, and conditioned not to say anything to contradict my parents because that\u2019s how you get punished double. I was silent while they told their story, and I was reluctant to believe that my brother was actually complicit in it all, until I saw him in person and it became obvious.<\/p>\n
No, I didn\u2019t hate my brother. He was my only friend during that terrible part of my life. I completely repressed all evidence of his Machiavellian behaviour, because the truth of it was something I could not emotionally survive at that time, because the idea about the two of us being in it together against the abusive parents, that was something I could survive and wrap my mind around. The idea of them being together against me was something that broke my mind altogether. It meant that I was completely alone in this world, that everybody was against me, that I have nobody to talk to, nobody to confide in, nobody on my side, and everybody hates me, despises me and wishes I didn\u2019t exist. My maternal grandparents were ok, but they were far and without much influence, except for that one instance when my grandfather saw my father viciously beating me, took him aside and told him that he has a pistol from the second world war and if he ever sees him beating me, he\u2019ll shoot him like a dog and throw him in the ditch, and he\u2019s too old to be afraid of prison. After that, my father was careful to not beat me in front of my grandparents. It would wait until we came home.<\/p>\n
But I would always come home, and be locked there with them and their insanity and violence that was always looming, always a latent threat, and it wasn\u2019t always an outburst \u2013 it was habitual. They would hit me when they passed me by in a corridor, just because they felt like it, no reason. I dreaded even coming close enough to them if I had to get something. Being in hit range meant more than a fifty-fifty chance of being hit. Every single time, every single day, since I was six, until I decided to kill myself because fuck this life, and everything ahead looked like same or worse darkness and evil.<\/p>\n
No, I didn\u2019t shoot my brother because I hated him, or because I was violent. I shot him because he begged me to shoot him, and I loved him so much that I couldn\u2019t bear to leave him in that hellhole with them, and he absolutely and unconditionally convinced me that we are both in it together the same way, so much that I refused to believe otherwise even when confronted with evidence. You can\u2019t even imagine what it cost me to do it. It went against my feeling of rightness, it meant to take action in his stead just because he begged me to do it and it was technically infeasible to leave it up to him. It meant taking responsibility that I didn\u2019t want to take, to take the blame I didn\u2019t want to take, and I understood it all, that if there\u2019s an afterlife I will have to take responsibility, and I even understood that I would be legally blamed, which actually bothered me even despite the fact I completely expected to die. I did believe in an afterlife, though, and suicide was an attempt to leave hell, not a wish to be dead. It was a wish to escape something worse than death that endured, lingered, and got worse with time. I shot him because seeing him cry and beg not to be left there with them broke my resolve to influence my destiny alone, and when he completely betrayed me afterward and joined my psychopathic parents in inventing a story about a crazy, violent and deranged brother who shot him because he hated him, my soul broke and I just stood there and didn\u2019t even muster strength to say anything as I was railroaded into an institution for mentally ill violent criminals who are a perpetual danger to their environment.<\/p>\n
I was too hurt to be able to laugh at the irony \u2013 I was supposed to be the violent one now. Everybody talked to me assuming that everything those three bastards told them was an absolute truth. For almost two years, their story held, because nobody gave enough fuck to actually scratch the paint and see what\u2019s under. And then one psychiatrist actually tested things. She arranged people to try to provoke me, to see how I react, whether I\u2019m actually violent, and established that I actually never react in any way \u2013 I would just look at them, shrug and leave. Or I would look at them, and answer calmly. She also talked to the rest of that family, and soon understood that if someone from that family was to be locked away, it\u2019s the parents, and my brother was\u2026 weird. She didn\u2019t understand the core issue, how incredibly psychopathic, violent and evil my mother was, and how my father always went along with it, probably thinking it was his duty to support his wife in everything. I couldn\u2019t even tell her the truth, because I was too badly traumatised. Interestingly, I could even see it all properly only after I left them permanently and they could no longer reach me to hurt me. Before, I was very careful not to say anything that would incriminate them, because sooner or later we would all come home, and then there would be hell to pay, when I\u2019m under their control and power.<\/p>\n
And I let those people tell lies about me, about that entire situation, because I wanted to give them an option to repent and tell the truth, and also because I was still somewhere conditioned that nobody will believe me anyway, and truth will just look like me trying to whitewash myself, absolve myself from any guilt and make them look bad instead. Also, believe it or not, it didn\u2019t actually matter to me enough to stir shit up. I had other problems in life that required my energy and attention, and I didn\u2019t actually consider myself blameless in the entire matter. I did all kinds of bad things I felt guilty of. I told lies in order to procure that crossbow. I knew, in hindsight, what a broken and nasty person I was back then, and that wasn\u2019t something I wanted to justify. I felt guilty for going against God\u2019s will and my conscience by following through with that damn suicide pact even after all I felt was wrongness. I disobeyed God. Everything that followed felt like punishment for my sins. No; trying to justify myself was very far from my thoughts. It\u2019s also not something I want to do now. But truth finally needs to be told, because otherwise the lies will stand unopposed.<\/p>\n
One could rightfully ask why we shot ourselves and not our parents who created the hell for us to live in? It\u2019s a good question, but you can\u2019t imagine how it felt to be me at that time. Right now, if someone wanted to oppress me, I would oppose them \u2013 try to kill them and likely die in the attempt. Then, it was \u201csince they all hate me in this world, I\u2019ll just leave; I don\u2019t want to be where I\u2019m neither wanted or needed\u201d. Because, you see, I actually believed in an afterlife then. I didn\u2019t believe in God, because thanks to my grandmother I got to think that religion is an incredibly ridiculous thing and God is too silly a thing to exist. I did know that something<\/i> existed, I felt that all those near-death experiences were true, and, as I already said before, since I was ten I was in a process of gradual self-realisation that was savagely interfered with by the violence and madness of my family. I knew something existed, and that I somehow mattered, and I tried to assemble memories by finding things that clicked, from literature and so on, however you can\u2019t do that when your mind is constantly being disrupted by trauma. If anything, the attempts only made me sound incoherent and deranged. What I was, in fact, was trying to remember my true self, failing, and giving up altogether.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s why I didn\u2019t shoot the people who turned my life into hell. Think about it. I shoot them, I go to prison. I\u2019m still in a hell they created for me, and they are out. If I shoot both them and myself, there\u2019s a chance we end up in the same afterlife, and I didn\u2019t want to risk that. I wanted to be rid of them forever, not end up with them somewhere else. If I killed myself, I\u2019m out, and they can live here happily ever after knowing they are finally rid of me. The brother can do whatever, it\u2019s his call. Except for the fact that the damn crossbow is so hard to reset that I could barely do it then, and my brother absolutely couldn\u2019t. I knew that I couldn\u2019t reset it after having shot myself through the heart. I tried and blacked out temporarily from the effort, because low blood pressure. So, leaving it up to him was technically infeasible. I assumed it before, and proved it later. Had I known what I learned later, that he\u2019s a Machiavellian chameleon who will say or do anything, and that all his feelings are just fake manipulative bullshit, I would do everything differently. I would never even plan suicide. I would never confide in him. I would never involve him in any of my thinking. I would wait until I\u2019m 18 and then ask grandparents whether I can move in with them. But he deceived me, and it happened because I wanted to be deceived. I wanted to believe there was someone on my side in that hell. I made mistakes, and I overpaid for them a hundred times over.<\/p>\n
And so, now the full extent of truth, or as much of it as I know with the best of my efforts to remember everything correctly and without colourations, is known. I didn\u2019t tell it because I expect it to be believed; if anything, I expect people to believe in lies that confirm their illusions, as they normally do. No, I told it because it is the truth and truth needs to be told, because I couldn\u2019t feel comfortable with myself if I didn\u2019t tell it. Do with it whatever you want.<\/p>\n
It is comforting, however, that the \u201cguys up there\u201d knew it even when I suppressed it, denied parts of it for comfort, or refused to say it out of fear that it would make everything worse. They know it all. I know what little I manage to figure out. And I know that they hate liars who use the nature of this world to tell false stories, all for the greater glory of Satan. What used to be my family is really in for a treat when they leave this world and come for judgment.<\/p>\n
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Why now? Why did I write all that now, and not before? It\u2019s hard for me to name a single reason, for there are many. Because I was prodded by the Gods to look into it, implying there is unresolved … Continue reading