As I write this I am holed up in my house, waiting for my so-called brother to hunt me down. I have my firearm and my phone beside me, but it will be only one of those that will be utilized when the time comes, because there won’t be time for both.
I cannot remember a time when that human piece of shit was not sullying my life. When I think back on my childhood, every happy memory was ruined by his presence. Screaming obscenities at our gentle mother, leering at nine-year-old-me me through the bathroom door, trashing the house, stealing from all of us, hitting anyone who was smaller or weaker. There was never a moment’s peace. Once we vacationed at the ocean and walked along the beach. I was about seven, so he was eleven. I found a tiny jellyfish in a tide pool. Delighted, I squat down to watch it swim around. Our mother walked up at the same time as Keith. Seeing me smile, he scooped up the tiny creature, slammed it into the sand, stomped on it, then walked away – satisfied. Still squatting, tears stung my eyes as I stared into the empty tide pool. “I’m sorry,” Mommy said sadly.
It was all I knew – one good brother and one bad. And John, the good one, was no match for him. Our parents, exceptionally good people, had no idea what to do or why they had “failed.” Only our father held any sway over him but that did not stop Keith from his rage or destruction. They took him to psychologists, turned him into the authorities, and frankly went above and beyond what most parents would do for a child biological or adopted – considering the kind of treatment they got in return.
Adoption really was forever as far as they were concerned. But I wish it hadn’t been. I wish there was a place where they could have returned him. I wish his numerous criminal acts nullified the adoption. I wish I had killed him when I threw the no. 9 ball from the pool table at his ugly face. I have wished him dead so many times it’s practically a mantra.
Last night was no different. He has lived in Nevada for several years, mooching off the mother of his children. After our father died he nearly convinced them that he was the executor of the estate, and we all would need to come to him like the Godfather to ask for his favor. It is possible he really believed what he was saying. I laughed bitterly when his kids’ other grandfather – their designated financial custodian – called in a near-panic about it. The fact that his little sister – our dad’s Power of Attorney and signer on his bank accounts – was also the executrix could have finally pushed him over the edge. All I know is he’s delusional and deranged.
I had to secure two Temporary Orders of Protection while Dad was alive to keep Keith away from him and our step-mother. Dad could have died peacefully in his own home if not for that asshole’s determination to weasel his way back into his life (read: money). As it was, when Dad was released from a nursing home after a collapse, we rented a house where we could care for him and Keith could not enter.
Every few months, he would threaten to come up here and take over. To get a trustee and guardian ad litem. Ordering John and me to cease and desist removing anything from the house. I finally texted him, saying that although I did not owe him an explanation, everything I was doing was legal and his share of the inheritance was secure. To which he texted back:
“I’ll see you in court. Let’s get it on cunt face.” (note: misspellings edited for clarity)
Being a total coward, he never did take it to court. The only thing he did, after blowing all his money and being left in debt again in all of six weeks, was to set his sights on his children’s inheritance and hand write the probate court demanding to be made their financial custodian in place of his ex’s father. When this didn’t work, he turned on the kids’ mother, having her thrown in jail over the children’s protests on a charge of domestic violence. Bailed out by her long-suffering parents, she asked me for help in the form of a copy of the TPOs I had made against him, to show a pattern of abuse. At first I wasn’t sure if I should get involved, but then she told me their younger daughter attempted suicide just after her tenth birthday. I sent her the TPOs, and added a notarized affidavit – one written in anger and anguish but steely resolve – that he raped me when I was ten and has terrorized female family members his entire life. She was granted complete custody and he was left with nothing – by a female judge.
I knew he was backed up against a wall now. I knew if he was going to try anything it would be now. But I still wasn’t prepared for the text message last night:
“He’s on his way up. He says he’s coming for the kids’ money.”
So last night, I thought of all the ways he could die before he got here. I prayed, “Scriptures say to test You. So if you are a just a loving God, make sure he dies before reaching Washington state.”
Today I took all the usual precautions. (Please don’t tell me what I need to do. I’ve done it.) Warned John. Gave flyers to the neighbors. Informed the attorney, Etc, etc. I went through the box of photos I kept to pass along to his older daughter – so she would know her father was once a child with loving parents and not the monster he is now, to find one of what he looks like now. I taped it to the inside of my front door so the kids will know what to watch for. I will warn them when they come home today. But really I hoped he drove off a cliff, and that God would finally show me I am precious in His sight.
Instead God once again let me down. Keith is staying somewhere forty-five minutes away from my house. He still doesn’t have my address but it is only a matter of time. When I told my longtime boyfriend of these developments yesterday – from my car so the kids wouldn’t hear – he joked as he does now since having several mini-strokes:
“So, are you packing?”
“I am carrying a gun, like I always do,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“I just can’t see you using it.”
“You won’t have to see it.”
“You will really kill him?”
“Yes, and he knows it.”
This is the beauty adoption brings. Being permanently attached to a genetic stranger and made to deal with them no matter what. Keith knows I will kill him if he steps foot onto my property, so if he does it it will be a suicide mission. Because he doesn’t have the guts to off himself without help. I grieve the waste – the waste of all the love and dedication our parents put into him, the wasted years of my childhood growing up in a war zone, the waste of John being pushed aside because Keith needed more help. I cannot adequately describe the hatred I have for adoption and everything it’s taken from me. I hate the fact I have been put into this position. I hate the fact no one can really help me. I even hate the fact I have spent the last two hours composing this post.
Adoption is not a miracle. It is not from God. It is not natural. It is not ethical. It is not beautiful. It’s a fucking tangled mess that I will spend the rest of my life cleaning up.