My Story - Don't want to be so alone in this (possible trigger warning)

[SonicFireFly]

Dear friends, future friends, readers - thanks for letting me share this. While it is not short, even reading it to the end without comment would already help. Because the story is so extreme and unusual in some parts. This has been long, long, long due. I need my story to be known, shared. If you do comment, make sure you read it all, and be kind above all. Only thanks to recent tech [ai] I was able to stitch all my notes together- it was too hard even to type beforehand the whole story. However it is my voice. Please read it through.


I. Before the Seizure Family Dynamics
David (parent, male), and My Mother Bracha
(me: male)
Before my mother became ill, life at home was already shaped by intimidation and instability. David (parent, male) related through criticism, arguments, interruptions, and shouting. There were threats, bursts of rage, and at least one time he hit me with a belt—and also my brother. What stayed with me most was not only the physical incident but the constant threat of violence — the knowledge that it could happen again. He was about 1.95 meters tall, a former rugby player, physically much larger than me as a child. His size, voice, and anger filled space in a way that made confrontation impossible. When he became angry, it was really  scary. Fear was not an isolated event but an atmosphere that shaped daily life.
There was no counterbalance of warmth or repair afterward. The emotional climate moved between absence and anger — periods of disengagement followed by eruptions of criticism or rage, without reconciliation.

He was a reader. Books mattered to him. He read extensively himself. Yet he never shared books with me, never recommended one, never discussed ideas, never created reading as a shared space. At the same time, he criticized me by saying, "You have so many books!" as if my reading were excessive or wrong. The contradiction was precise: reading was valued when it belonged to him, but not when it became a bridge between us. Even in an area where connection was naturally available, there was withholding instead of participation. Like in sport and other domains, reading remained his territory rather than something shared.

Cycling was and remains his major hobby. Even today he invests heavily in high-end bicycles and equipment. His bicycle stood prominently in the hallway, constantly visible, occupying shared domestic space in a major way. Yet despite this intense investment, he never taught me to ride a bicycle, even though he knew I could not ride. He witnessed this gap throughout my childhood and adolescence and did nothing. The contrast became unavoidable: an expensive bicycle occupying the center of the home while I remained excluded from the activity it represented. Over time the bicycle stopped being neutral. It became a disturbing object — a daily reminder of exclusion from something meaningful to the parent. It is difficult to describe what it is like growing up passing that object every day, knowing how much it mattered to him, yet never being invited into it.
Video games were central to my childhood, yet I do not remember him ever suggesting we play together or showing interest beyond observation. Parallel lives existed inside the same home. Sport mattered greatly to him generally, yet I received no guidance, initiation, or shared participation. Like with the bicycle issue, as soon as I was above 8 years old, he gave up any involvement, mentorship etc., to this day, including in the biggest theme in my life back then, art — yes he provided some paper and paint, but other than that, interest was minimal.
Sometimes small examples reveal much: when we ate out, I would occasionally ask for food without cheese. In Israel, where there is a long-standing cultural and religious tradition around the separation of dairy products, this was not socially unusual or strange. Despite this, he reacted with open irritation and criticism. He would make a scene in front of others, questioning the request and acting as though I were being difficult or embarrassing. The reaction was disproportionate to the situation. Instead of the moment passing unnoticed, it became charged, as if my choice reflected poorly on him. Or for instance, despite the fact that he constantly insisted on speaking to me in English in public, which increased a sense of alienation and lack of belonging, he never agreed to or "fought for me" so that I would be in an English-speakers class or similar things — he did not show much interest in school.
The point of all this is that instead of protecting me, as a natural instinct, I do not remember him ever doing so, even when I was bullied as a child or when other kids ostracized me. Later, when I had to fight the school system so they would give me a certain diploma they forgot, or the military system (IDF) over their choices, I had to do so alone. Instead of support, all his actions testify that he is ashamed of me, embarrassed by me, without the honesty to say so.

My mother, Bracha, was loving, encouraging, and gentle. She was not cynical or pressuring. She carried a quiet independence that only became clear later. She traveled extensively when she was young — to Europe and New York in the 60s — and was involved in artistic and cinematic environments. Only in retrospect did I understand how traveling alone as a young Jewish woman at that time was unusually brave for her generation. She didn't talk much about herself. She loved handmade communication — cards, gestures, personal attention — small acts of continuity and care. She was fifty-three when she died.

II. Hyper-sexualized exhibitionist tendencies of David
Some situations that might seem ordinary became uncomfortable because of this context. Both before and many years after my mother's death, he often walked around shirtless wearing very tight lycra cycling shorts, which left nothing to the imagination. On their own this might not matter, but in our small apartment, combined with rage, intimidation, and physical dominance, it created an overexposed bodily presence that felt deeply uncomfortable. The combination of this semi-nudity with many instances of weird alienation mentioned and his lack of solidarity, together becomes a provocation of too close and too far at once. The issue was not clothing itself but the coexistence of exposure with threat. As a child and later as a young adult, proximity to a parent with a coercive and sometimes violent physical presence who presented himself this way felt invasive and unfamiliar. There was no emotional safety that could neutralize the situation. It was simply very disturbing and, to a certain extent, disgusting. The combination of aggression, size, unpredictability, and exposed physicality amplified vulnerability rather than closing distance.

III. The Seizure
When I was seventeen, she suffered a seizure during the night and was taken to the hospital. A brain tumor was discovered. Within days her memory deteriorated rapidly. Exactly like advanced Alzheimer's, but overnight. She became confused, disoriented, and at times believed events were happening that were not. Identity dissolved in real time while the body remained present. Watching memory vanish so abruptly while still a teenager was deeply destabilizing.

She lived for several weeks in this shifting state. After surgery, we were told she might live a year. Four weeks later she died from a blood clot complication. Everything happened fast and with great suddenness. It was summer. I went through these events without significant emotional guidance or explanation. To be seventeen and watch your mother's personality disappear almost overnight — without anyone stable beside you to help you understand what you are witnessing — creates a rupture that does not close.
The time in the hospital created what later became recognizable as a PTSD pattern. The scenes of her confusion, the abrupt loss of memory, the disorientation in her eyes, the swollen face — swollen from all the harsh procedures — and the rapid collapse of personality replayed internally long after the event ended. These were not distant memories; they returned as intrusive images and sensory fragments. There were moments when the atmosphere of the hospital — the lighting, the smell, the sound of machinery — would return in flashes. — Can you imagine how that feels??.
I had no framework at seventeen to understand this as trauma. It was impossible to articulate what I had seen, and even more impossible to share these images with the only remaining parent, who was emotionally unavailable and minimizing of the situation. The hospital experience remained vividly present: consciousness vanishing while physical life remains. A total nightmare.

IV. Immediate Aftermath — Silence
David (parent, male) did not post the customary mourning notice outside the building — a basic social practice in Israel that informs neighbors of a death and allows for community acknowledgment. Without it, the death remained strange and unannounced, and the burden of informing others fell largely on me. While still in shock, guilt-trips were played with me regarding decisions Bracha made in her will — decisions I had no knowledge of. I was accused of "taking over the house" while still a teenager. Instead of protection, blame appeared. No meaningful apology ever came. He was more concerned with what he did or did not receive than with the welfare of his children or moving toward a functioning family.
This happened exactly as I was finishing high school — a developmental moment where reassurance and guidance are normally essential. Nothing was offered. Remember that this was before the era of Facebook and smartphones. Relatives gradually withdrew. Pleas to write memories of her, of her life, were ignored. Attempts to preserve her memory were met with silence. Even twenty years later, the anniversary of her death passed without acknowledgment. — Can you imagine how that feels??. Writing was so vital to my recovery from the PTSD flashbacks, yet my uncle (her brother) and my brother could not respect this very benign project, not for their sake, but for mine.

I initiated preserving her memory myself. At sixteen I filmed her during a trip to Australia; without that initiative, the primary video record of her would not exist. I also began writing about her life and memories. No thanks or recognition was expressed for these efforts from anyone, even though they were the only record of her final years. Since her death, I rarely dream of her.

In this context, the silence and lack of interest from relatives became even more destabilizing. The hospital scenes were already overwhelming and isolating; the fact that no one wanted or could address them amplified the isolation. Although such themes are difficult to access, especially for extended family, the lack of acknowledgment deepened the sense that I was carrying something unbearable alone. When traumatic material has no shared container, it does not fade — it circulates within itself. The absolute absence of conversation protected no one; it amplified the haunting quality of the memories. Even without asking occasionally how I am, how I'm doing.
There was no second adult to balance the home dynamic. Especially after the illness began, Amit (brother, one year younger) became increasingly distant and had the social structure that allowed for that distance. I did not have that option. I was left alone with the remaining parent.

V. The Incident of Her Tombstone — The Taboo
The incident of her tombstone was even more disturbing. Without consultation, explanation, or warning, he engraved the names of the three of us — including my name — on my mother's tombstone. In Israel this is extremely unusual and constitutes a cultural taboo. No one followed this strange custom. I remember scanning the surrounding tombstones, looking carefully to see if anyone else had done something similar. I found no one. He could have written something indirect or symbolic — "The family misses you". Instead, by engraving all our names — and my name without consent — he buried us along with her. I was only 17 at the time this occurred. To see my name etched in stone while trying to survive her death felt like a symbolic burial. — Can you imagine how that feels??. A boundary between living and dead had been crossed without explanation.

VI. Patterns of dismissiveness, neglect, ongoing
After she died, things did not soften. They intensified. There were even more incidents with David than those described here; what is written are examples rather than a complete account. He would shout at me for leaving a light on. He would shout at me for taking too long in the shower. He would shout at me for leaving lights on. He would shout at me for forgetting to turn on the boiler (water heater). He would shout when I asked for rides, even when they were for symbolically important moments like appointments related to significant life transitions (enlisting in the IDF, going to therapy, arriving home from the airport etc.). Small daily actions repeatedly became opportunities for anger during an already fragile time.

When I tried to explain myself, he said, "You talk so much," or "Who do you think you are?". When I struggled emotionally, the response was simply: "Move on". When asked if he was going to therapy, he said "It's none of your business". When there was a difficult moment between me and my brother (he did not officially invite me to his wedding), and I asked for David's mediation, he said "Don't involve me in this".
It wasn't only that he shouted- he would begin shouting exactly when I started talking, a cruel habit he had also when I was a kid, so I would not be able to speak, or be heard; In this chronic context it is not only frustrating, it is truly violent.

And as if I hadn't lost enough, he also had a tendency to want to throw away my mother's things, her books, my things from childhood, and I had to fend this off several times. And as usual, nothing was a dialogue, but only rage, without explanation on his part etc.. When I was abroad, he also threw away the bed-frame full of stickers that had been there since I was born essentially, a very nostalgic item, without asking me and without any clearly visible urgency. Just like that.

Birthday are always deeply connected with the mother. So they always carry this symbolic side. On my 2nd birthday after her passing, I used money I had from working in a computer shop to buy myself a webcam from there. Incredibly, David pretended this gift, the webcam, was from him ! I had to fight on my birthday with him over this, and only when a therapist on my behalf intervened he relented. But it was never explained to me- just another mind-* playing with highly significant symbols and sensitive times.

In the context of losing my mother unusually early, having only one parent remaining, and with no other adult from the family consistently present, his dismissiveness carried a particular weight. While I was abroad for about two months, he replaced the air conditioning system in the apartment. When I returned, I discovered that the new system was configured so that no air reached my room. The result was that my room became physically uninhabitable during the long Israeli summer. Symbolic, but also real. This was done without consultation or discussion.
Even not long ago, a few years ago, without prior argument or provocation, suddenly one day I find that he had placed my private bank documents in the street outside the entrance to the building. He did not send a message to ask me to come and collect them. He did not place them discreetly by my door. He simply left them outside, scattered in the street. I had to bend down in the street and gather my own bank documents off the ground by myself. It was humiliating. There is something degrading about collecting your personal papers from the pavement, exposed, as if they had been discarded as waste. It would have taken seconds to send a simple text asking me to come and collect them. Instead, they were left in the street. No meaningful apology followed, as usual. If I were to confront him, he would mock me — as usual — for "still" "continuing to go on about it".

Another example of this — for two years the neighbors upstairs installed new flooring with irregular noise at unpredictable hours. He dismissed the impact of it, but the renovation also changed the acoustic character of the apartment: the sound of footsteps from above became very audible through the installed parquet flooring, which reduced the sense of privacy. Yet, no attempt was made to speak with the neighbors or protect my interests.
Each of these incidents might seem small in isolation, but as they were repeated in the context of profound loss and the absence of another adult's support, the pattern evidenced a refusal to engage with issues that required care or responsibility.
Or, once, when asked in therapy about my mother's death, he reduced the entire event to one word: "Illness.". By compressing the most devastating event of our lives into a single neutral medical term, he erased the horror of what happened, the suffering she endured, and the collapse of family life that followed. The word functioned as a wall. It avoided description, emotion, and responsibility. It turned an overwhelming human catastrophe into an abstract category, minimizing not only her experience but the destruction of relationships that followed. In doing so, it enforced silence rather than shared mourning.

Additionally, one year I received a text message: "Today is the anniversary of her death." Nothing followed. No condolences, no memory, no expression of sorrow, no "may she rest in peace," no acknowledgment directed toward me. The message felt mechanical — like an automated alert rather than communication between two people sharing a loss. The sentence ended without emotional completion, leaving the moment hanging and empty.
There are more episodes of his abusive behavior. Some are even harder for me to write here.

VII. Brother and Family Fragmentation
Amit remained largely distant after her death. He had the social structure and flexibility to leave the home environment and spend most of his time elsewhere. I did not have that option. He also used a lot of drugs, which he admitted only a decade later. His absence meant that the dynamic between me and David became even more concentrated and undefended. There was no presence of a brother to mitigate the intensity of the remaining relationship between parent and child.
Relationships with extended family were also broken. A number of relatives maintained strained or distant ties with David, and communication patterns often reinforced silence rather than repair. The cumulative effect was fragmentation rather than collective mourning. Instead of shared processing, separation deepened. Or, those same relatives communicated with David without knowing he is gatekeeping and not forwarding almost anything to me or Amit.
Over time, I began to understand that I was living in a condition that resembled orphanhood in practice, but I didn't even have the legal definition of it. Since it happened when I was 17 and the majority of the abuse by David occurred by the time I was 18, I was nominally an adult and could not use the services that exist for minors. The emotional reality was that protection, guidance, and attuned support were absent. Yet there was no acknowledgment of this condition. There was no social recognition of having lost not only a mother but effectively the stabilizing function of a family system.
This lack of recognition compounded the loss itself. It is one thing to lose a parent; it is another to live in an environment where that loss is minimized, redirected, or treated as administratively concluded. The combination of silence, minimization, and obstruction created a prolonged state of unresolved grief.
Physical and emotional symptoms accumulated gradually: exhaustion, difficulty concentrating, and intermittent depressive episodes. Academic and life transitions became harder to navigate. The absence of reassurance during formative times left deep gaps that required later repair.

End of Testimony — Expanded Version

[TheBigBlue]

Welcome SonicFireFly

Thank you for trusting us with this.

What you describe, especially the atmosphere of intimidation, the sudden loss of your mother and safety, and then having to carry so much of the aftermath alone, that is a lot for one person - let alone a young person - to hold. It makes sense that you needed to write it down and have it witnessed.

Reading this also touched something personal for me. I once told my therapist that sometimes I wish my father had died before I ever knew him. Then I could have grieved not having a father - a loving father. Instead, I grew up with a narcissistic father; and what made it especially painful was that my younger sister was the golden child and I was the scapegoat. So it wasn't that he couldn't love, my felt experience was that I was not lovable.

For me, another part of this kind of work has been trying to reconstruct my own history and make sense of it. At first it felt important to gather and name the events themselves, almost like documenting them so they would finally exist somewhere outside of me. Over time, though, something shifted: it became less about adding more details and more about seeing the patterns, like how the environment I grew up in shaped my nervous system, my coping strategies, and the roles I learned to occupy.

I don't know if that resonates with your experience or not. But I just wanted to say that I hear how much you carried and I'm really glad you felt able to put your story here. 💛

[NarcKiddo]

Welcome. I'm glad you have been able to stitch your notes together and post your story here. It is so very much for you to have endured and I am sorry you had to. All of the story was distressing but the incident of the names on the tombstone was something I found particularly cruel.

[SonicFireFly]

Hi there , thanks for replying so far, because it took so much to have this, I'm writing this note so it would remain visible in the forum. Thanks

[Kizzie]

Hi SonicFireFly and welcome to the forum. One thing stood out for me immediately on reading your post and that is how clearly you understand what happened to you and how it impacted you. Many new members struggle to understand everything that happened to them. The grief that runs throughout your post is another sign you are beginning to deal with all things. It often takes time to reach into that and be able to face  your feelings. All this is too say you seem to be dealing with things in a healthy way even if it all feels exhausting, depressing, etc. By bringing those feelings here and being supported by others who understand, it can really help you to get through all of those necessary but oh so difficult feelings.

I wanted to mention there is a journal section many people use that would may be helpful for documenting things and keeping that visible in one place.       

[SonicFireFly]

Hi SonicFireFly and welcome to the forum. One thing stood out for me immediately on reading your post and that is how clearly you understand what happened to you and how it impacted you. Many new members struggle to understand everything that happened to them. The grief that runs throughout your post is another sign you are beginning to deal with all things. It often takes time to reach into that and be able to face  your feelings. All this is too say you seem to be dealing with things in a healthy way even if it all feels exhausting, depressing, etc. By bringing those feelings here and being supported by others who understand, it can really help you to get through all of those necessary but oh so difficult feelings.

I wanted to mention there is a journal section many people use that would may be helpful for documenting things and keeping that visible in one place.       

Thanks....  well it took more than 20 years and AI stitching. I did not have clarity at first. What is now obvious it is not so much the loss but what support or cruelty is given immidiately afterwards