I will never forget the searing pain of the first time my brother used an ableist slur against me. I was around 19, recently diagnosed with an incurable, muscle-wasting disease that severely limits my mobility and dexterity. His cruel word cut like a knife, a wound that would be reopened again and again in the years that followed.
The Hero Who Became a Threat
In my youth, our family dynamic was happy. My brother, two years my senior, was my protector and hero. At school, he would fiercely defend me, and I felt immense pride when he once gave a bully a black eye on my behalf. Looking back, that aggression was a warning sign.
Flashes of his unpredictable temper emerged in our teens. I vividly recall him once flipping a towel at me with such violent force it made me cry out, an incident that marked the first time I felt true fear of him. By the time he reached his early twenties, his temper had become explosive. For years, my parents and I lived in a state of high alert, enduring slammed doors, terrifying tantrums, and a constant dread of violence.
The disabled slurs became a regular feature of his abuse, alongside deeply personal insults aimed at me and our family. When my father was out of work, he was labelled a ‘parasite’. We all walked on eggshells, conditioned to accept his behaviour and stay silent until each outburst passed.
A Harsh Awakening and a Final Straw
My brother remained in our parents' home until his late twenties, spending his money on drink rather than saving. His eventual departure brought collective relief, and we grew distant, with contact limited to strained family occasions. The fun-loving brother of my childhood had vanished, replaced by a bitter, resentful man who offered no explanation or apology.
My understanding of his behaviour shifted dramatically one night while watching a news report on controlling behaviour and domestic abuse. The language used by the abuser mirrored my brother's insults. The chilling realisation hit me: I had been in an abusive relationship with my own sibling.
This truth became undeniable after our mother died in 2024. At my most vulnerable, the day after her funeral, he announced he was moving back into our adapted family home. He proceeded to dictate where I would sleep, what renovations he would make, and even how I should spend our inheritance. Paralyzed by grief, I nodded along, but later broke down in terror at the prospect.
Finding Strength in Separation
Months later, when I felt stronger, I told him he couldn't make the changes due to the home's essential adaptations. His response was to storm downstairs shouting a vile misogynistic slur. In that moment, I recognised my own conditioned acceptance of his abuse. Fortunately, he chose not to move in.
The final break came last year during a call about his desire to buy a home. I made a generous financial offer involving our future inheritance to help him with a deposit. He threw it back in my face, blaming me for his inability to get a mortgage because I refused to be his guarantor—a risk I could not take with my accessible home. After that call, I felt a despair so deep I briefly thought of ending my life. That was the moment I cut contact.
I now understand he mistook my kindness for weakness. Today, our interaction is minimal and strictly on my terms. Letting him go has been a signal of my newfound emotional strength. I feel lighter, focused on making my accessible home truly my own, and ready to move forward—for my own benefit.
