My brother has always struggled a lot in life. He can’t seem to find his way and it’s always had an impact on me ever since I can remember.

My brother has some serious problems. I could never keep up with his personalities and mood swings. The psychiatrist’s office was the dreaded Mayberry my brother had to have himself dragged to twice a week. The medication turned him into someone I couldn’t recognize, a stranger in my home.
He scared me sometimes.
His inability to stay centered or anchored to reality was something that I found hard to comprehend, and that’s why it frightened me. Like walking in a strange dark room, unaware of your surroundings or what you might touch, my brother was unpredictable and mysterious.
His true feelings were concealed, I feel.
What a shame.
To be forced to be someone else’s normal.
As much as he scared me and as much as life was hard for him, and for me watching it all happen, I had empathy for him.
One time when we were little he tried to push me off a cliff. My mother caught me. That’s when he started getting help.
I hated the doctor’s office growing up, and with my brother’s issues I was there a lot.

We’re old now.
They told me he died a while back.
But he’s still there.
I can feel his presence when I’m alone.
I see him looking back at me in the mirror.
I’ve always been there for my brother when they tried to correct him.
As much as they tried, my brother still survived.
Buried.
Confused.
Muffled.

He still survives.