As he attempted to slip past Mom, she reached out, grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her. He screamed louder with spittle flying from his mouth, his face turning red, his eyes wild. I remember seeing the look in his eyes. I thought (and still do) that he was terrified. I didn�t understand why he was terrified. Atop that, I was sitting there, crying, silently begging him to just stand still, to be quiet, to stop screaming.

He started flailing his arms around, violently, as if he were trying to ward off some cruel and violent monster. He looked like he was terrified... mindlessly terrified. He was screaming so loud, so violently, so... terrified.

He hit Mom a few times. I don�t think he was trying to hurt her. I think he was trying to get away from the terrifying beast he saw. I don�t think anyone else saw it. I don�t think (this is the adult in me speculating) I don�t think he saw Mom. I think he saw some huge, violent and terrifying beast trying to destroy him.

Anyway, he was flailing and hit Mom a couple times. She, caught up in frustration, confusion and eventually anger, hit him. She tried to give him a swat on the butt. He jerked and pulled and screamed and her first smack landed on his hip. The second landed on his shoulder.

With each hit, he screamed louder, harsher.... *shakes her head*

I remember sitting there, tiny, curled up as small as I could get. I couldn�t help him. I couldn�t stop him. I couldn�t stop her. I was crying. I was terrified. I thought he was dying. I knew I couldn�t stop anything. And I felt totally and completely helpless. I believed that I was supposed to keep him alive. And I couldn�t. Here he was, only ten feet away from me, if that. The span of the kitchen table seperating us, and he was screaming so hard and he was hitting Mom and she was trying to deliver three swats to his butt and then she got really angry... enraged. She started shaking him. She grabbed him by the throat and started to squeeze. His screams were rougher, gasping. He was terrified. She was pissed off. He was still hitting her. She shook him. She let go of his throat and grabbed his biceps, shaking him. his head was jerking back and forth and the screams were still coming, hoarse and stuttered with the motions. He went stiff as a board, absolutely stiff and she just.... I don�t remember.

I can�t remember what happened then. It�s just... blank. End of the reel. No more film. Just gone. I remember crying and crying and crying. I remember him screaming. I remember her shaking him. I remember him getting stiff. I then remember being in my room, on my bed, sniffling. I remember my brother coming into my room, seeing me cry, shaking his head and laughing at me. Literally laughing at me.

He laughed at me hard. He asked why I bothered crying. It didn�t mean anything. It was fun. A game.

I hated him then. I hated him in those moments. He would do that often. After screaming so damned hard. After being terrified. After being beaten, hit, smacked, clunking himself against something... whatever. However the wounds had been inflicted. He would laugh at my tears. He would laugh at my fear, my pity, my own terror. He would laugh at me and tell me it was all just a game and I shouldn�t be crying cause it was fun.

I hated that. And I hated him. I hated him so very much because I believed it was my responsibility to protect him, to keep him safe, to keep him alive. And he knew that. And he didn�t care. He didn�t fucking care. He just thought it was funny as hell to see me crying and bawling and failing at being his protector/defender. He thought it was funny to piss Mom off. He thought it was funny to get choked to death. He thought it was funny to sit there and scream and scream and scream and scream until I was white with fear, crying and shaking violently.

He thought it was funny. A joke. A game. I shouldn�t cry for him cause he didn�t care. He thought it was fun.

What an absolute jerk. A complete and total asshole.

And that�s why, now, when someone tells me their life is miserable, I listen the first time. The second time. The third time. When it becomes a broken record... when it�s the same story every time, I don�t take it anymore. Fuck you. You want me to cry and bawl and be scared for you... you want me to feel like a failure. You want me to feel this terror just so you can laugh....

That�s what I feel.

The adult in me feels differently.

The adult in me knows that Dan was not acting on his own effort. Dan was not the one flailing at Mom. Dan was not the one laughing at me. Dan was not the one causing the problems and encouraging the rage, fear, terror. He was as much a victim as Mom and I were. But how to say this without sounding completely bonkers? There isn�t a way. *chuckles*

There were powers and principalities involved in that mess. The terror and fear and anguish and rage and fury and helplessness... those were not emotions prompted by us, they were emotions/feelings provided by demonic forces. I�m not saying my brother was possessed, or that either Mom or I were. But I do believe that there were some heavy-duty demonic presenses there. I know that the eyes of my brother, when he was doing that, behaving that way, were not his eyes.

I�ve seen my brother when he was normal. I�ve seen the difference between his normal behavior and this.... other, behavior. I know that if this stuff had taken place in this present decade, he would have been diagnosed as schizophrenic. He would have been put on some heavy-duty drugs, probably high doses of Thorazine (Thorezine?). The doctors would say that he was halucinating and having delusions.

I think he was, in a way. I think that he was seeing demons or demonic spirits. I know that the difference in him, between normal frustration and wild, raging bundle of nerve endings was too drastic to just be strictly action/reaction. He was seeing things that we couldn�t. And he was feeling things that weren�t natural. Likewise, Mom was reacting to things that weren�t natural. And finally, so was I.

*shakes her head*

I don�t want to experience that anymore. Therefore, right here and right now, I break it. I break whatever curse or curses were placed upon me. In the Holy Name of Jesus, I rebuke satan and his hoarde. IN the Name of Jesus, I call for protection and healing. By His stripes I am healed. Instantly and totally. In the name of Jesus Christ, I claim back my life, my emotions, my motivations and my thoughts, actions, reactions, concepts, beliefs, dreams, hopes, life!

I am a loved and protected Child of God and I claim the protection of the Holy One. I call upon the name of God, upon El Shadai. I call upon the Holy Name of El Elyon. I claim the peace, the safety, the joy, the freedom and the healing of my brother, Jesus, the Christ.

I rebuke, in the name of Jesus, the demons and spirits which have hung upon me for so long. I call upon the name of Jesus to break the curses placed upon me by my ancestors. I claim the healing and sanctity of Jesus� promises.

And I repent of my anger. I repent of my rage and fury and hate. I repent of my fear and terror and ignorance. I repent for those sins I didn�t realize I commited. I repent of my stupidity and I claim the healing God promised me through the blood and body of the Christ.

Well... I�m back now. I had to take a break for a few minutes. So, to continue...

Dan�s screams rending my heart-
That�s also where my despization of whiners/liars comes from

Yes, when my brother would scream like that, so much, so terribly... it ripped me apart. And, because it ripped me apart and seemed to be lies... all lies... I began to hate it when he screamed. I really, really hated it when he screamed. So much. But I began to hate him when he screamed. Because I was beginning to realize that those screams weren�t legit. His actions, after the fact, taught me that he was faking.

What I realize now is that he wasn�t faking. He really was terrified. But he wasn�t alone. He was playing host, involuntarily, I think, to some massive demonic presence. I realize now, that it wasn�t him laughing at me. It wasn�t him taunting me.

Still, from my experiences with him, I learned to hate fakers.

I remember when he and Dennis were �playing�. What they were really doing was fuckin with my head. I don�t know if Dennis was a part of it or not, but I know that my brother was being used, again, by some demonic presence. I think that the fear and terror and pain were his, but that he was a helpless victim.

===Yes, I know that it�s entirely possible that I�m wrong here. After all, wouldn�t it be a pleasant fantasy to think that someone you love was truly helpless when they were actually maliciously responsible? *shrugs* I don�t know what the real answer is. I just don�t know. But from what I have watched, what I�ve seen and what I�ve experienced, I�m far more inclined to believe that demonic possession/use is a viable option. Yes, it�s possible that I am �creating� these correllaries, but the fact that they�re possible, even if only a little bit possible... that�s enough for me to entertain the thought. After all, isn�t that the whole basis of the Evolutionary theory? There isn�t any real and solid proof that evolution is truly the origin of man. There�s a possibility, in most peoples� minds. That�s enough for the school system. *shrugs*===