First of all, you need to know my family. All of them are very high educated, best marks at school, top jobs etc. So basically as soon as I was born, I was expected to fit into their standards and be a good girl. Okay, yes, I am smart. No lying, I almost only get B's and A's (mark 1 and 2) in every subject. My family was satisfied. Well, and then my mother gave birth to my youngest brother. He has a very rare genetic defect (there are about 200 cases known) and is basically 1 year old mentally. His body is four. (He is four right now.) I hate him. I hate him so much I sometimes imagine killing him. I know this sounds creepy and like I am exaggerating, but I hate him. He is the center of attention. Always. Anywhere. I want to go to the library to fetch some books? No, we can't go there, my little brother won't stay quiet. I want to draw something in the kitchen, talking to mom? No, I can't, because my little brother is climbing onto the cat tree and mom needs to keep him happy. The whole day he screams and yells because he falls down from different places and hurts himself - and is up there in the next ten seconds, falling again. More screaming. I hate him. Mom does not have any time. Not for me nor my other two siblings. And now, he can't even go to the kindergarden. He is home all day, screaming and hurting himself. And me. I was in hospital twice for severe depression and take anti-depressiva. I have regular panicattacs, the last one was only three nights ago. And mom does not care. He is more important than me. My family hates me. My marks dropped, of course, wich is inexcusable to them. They avoid me, the little black sheep. And I know it. They don't hide it.
But the worst thing is: I am supposed to laugh, smile and study like everything is normal. Like I don't have even one second of the day for myself, like I don't think about killing my brother. And if I show that I'm sad, I get scolded for it. They tell me to fuck off and hide my ugly sad face. To set on a mask of happiness and laugh. I must not hate. I must not feel. I must function like a machine, bringing good marks home. I must be a perfect daughter. But I am not. And they hate it.
Just a few hours ago, it had happened again. Mom, my brother and I were visiting my grandparents and he was allowed to do everything; stomp through the flowers, climbing onto the dustbins, opening every fucking door for fucking thousand times and banging them shut... and I was angry. Once again. And I couldn't hide it well enough. My grandpa told me to pull myself together and then shouted at me. Mom told me my brother didn't know what he was doing, that I had to understand his difference. Grandma was just disappointed. She looked at me like she would look at a molding piece of cake - once tasty, but now ready for the bin. I hate that. But I can't show them my feelings. I can't. I must not hate. That's what their inner voices tell me. I must not hate.