The Weight of Evil

Sometime last year, at the worst possible time of my life, a friend of mine e-mailed me the link to the website of a company where my brother works. My brother and I have rightfully lost touch years ago. Still, out of curiosity I checked it out. Why I did so I’ll never be able to explain, but somehow I’m glad I did it. Never-the-less it came as a bit of a shock, in part because there was a picture of him posted online. The sight of it really threw me off. Oh, his curriculum was the one of a successful man no doubt about that, but his picture told a completely different story. He looked like a loser. He looked like a man completely defeated by life. He was not only unsightly in every possible ways but what emanated from him was discomforting. He looked lonely and off. Not a happy person. Definitely someone who’s emotions has been trampled several times over.

I looked at the picture for the longest time. This was the face of my molester. A queasy feeling at the pit of my stomach sent my anxiety level fly off the chart. I guess I never realized that I was dealing with years of repressed memories rioting their way out of hiding.

After a while, I printed the picture and showed it around the office. I wanted unbiased opinion and since they were unaware of the blood connection, it was easy. Their impression was the same as mine.

I printed a picture of myself and placed it next to his. The difference was flagrant. We didn’t remotely look related. There was a gulf separating us. I looked a generation younger; there was a glow, vivacity, life, joy springing from mine while his was devoid of soul.

Both my brother and I were molested. I don’t know who hurt him; it’s not my story to care about. All I know is that he is the one who molested me. It affected every aspects of my life, shaping it in ways that I would not have otherwise chosen. Still, I carried my cross, often with difficulty, always with courage and integrity. It was not an easy task. There was much repression, but with me the molestation ended. With my brother, he became in turn the molester himself.

I believe that in retrospect, I was protected from the worst. I believe that it is not so much the calamity that we are subjected to which destroys the soul more, but the one we inflict upon others.