Mossy Hits

Hair pulling, scratching, biting, and screaming – that’s how the first years of our relationship were defined. I grew tired of being attacked and then blamed for it, tired of being seen as the problem.

“You’re the older one.”

“You need to be more mature.”

“You’re bigger than her.”

“You’re supposed to love her.”

Those were the refrains that followed every complaint, every plea for someone to see what was really happening.

She said things meant to hurt, and they did. And when I tried to explain the damage, the story always twisted until I was the liar, the exaggerator, the one taking things “too seriously.”

As adults, I want to support her. I want to understand her. But it’s hard when opening up about my own pain turns into a competition – when her struggles suddenly mirror mine and somehow shine brighter. There’s no space for both of us to be hurting.

I don’t claim perfection. I played my part in the chaos too. But I’ve grown. I apologise, I take responsibility. Yet the apologies only ever move in one direction. She remains untouchable – always has been.

Living with her felt like living with my bully. The person who hurt me most was also the one I was told to protect, to love, to forgive. It’s a strange kind of loneliness – carrying both the guilt and the bruises, the blame and the silence.

When I finally left home, something shifted. The buffer was gone – the one who absorbed the anger, the one who made peace by taking the blame.

“I see what you were going through,” she told me later. It’s probably the only recognition I’ll ever get for being the scapegoat – the one who kept everything from falling apart by breaking quietly first.