Yeah, I've used this picture before. Here's why: look at those eyes, man. That's a kid who's having something dawn on him––a fundamental imbalance in the family, in the self. In the selves around him. 

I know that I saw more abuse with my eyes than I experienced with my body. My brother Mike bore the brunt of it, and that brunt came from my mother. How much came from my dad? In Mike's narrative, our dad got off scot-free; our dad was a victim of circumstance and bad luck and his born to lose mentality. Never could have hurt any of us. It was all my mom's fault, according to Mike. 

(And I say my mom here because Mike has a different mother; he's officially a half-brother, but I don't call him that. He's my brother, always was and will be, even if we don't talk anymore.) 

All Mike's drug problems, he's said, are directly the fault of my mother. But when I've asked what exactly she did to him, he won't say. I know he got strapped by the belt more frequently than I did. What else did he get? Humiliation and emotional abuse, no doubt. Was there something sexual? 

I have no idea. But the more I write about people who are in darkness, the more darkness I feel I must have witnessed as a child. My father's darkness, sure. But also that of my brothers. Of my mom. Darkness all around.  

Look at those eyes again. Up close and blurry. This is where the desecration started. The corrosion of my soul, initiated by what I witnessed. It was the root of all self-desecrations to follow.