My brother was my hero – then he started calling me slurs

I will never forget how I felt when my brother first called me an ableist slur. 

This was when I was around 19 and recently diagnosed with an incurable, muscle-wasting disease that significantly limits mobility and dexterity.

My brother’s comment, calling me a s****ic, cut like a knife and lingered with me – until the next time, and the next. 

Every time, it would eat away at me, but I stayed silent due to my brother’s volatile nature.

Our family had a happy dynamic when I was younger, and I used to think of my brother – who is two years older – as my hero.

At school, he’d go wading in for me if anyone was unkind. I’ll never forget how proud I felt of him when he gave a bully a black eye on my behalf. 

On reflection, perhaps that was a sign.

There were flashes of temper in our teenage years. Once he flipped a towel at me repeatedly and with such force I cried out. I had no idea what had triggered it, and like his later tempers, there was no apparent cause.

That’s the first time I remember fearing him.

As he grew older, around 20, his temper became explosive. My parents and I endured years of slamming doors, temper tantrums and fear of violence. 

I remember often lying in my bed at night holding my breath in anticipation of a row resulting in violence.

The disabled slurs became regular, and personal insults to myself and my family. 

When my dad was out of work, he was labelled a ‘parasite’. 

We all walked on eggshells, always wondering when he was going to explode next.

My parents never confronted him, they were obviously in fear of him, just like I was. 

We become conditioned not to question anything, accept his behaviour, and keep quiet until the explosion subsided. 

My brother didn’t move out of our parents’ house until his late twenties. He would have left earlier, but rather than save towards a deposit, my brother spent most of his money on booze.

We all took a collective breath of relief when he moved out.

As a result, we grew further apart.

The exceptions included birthdays, Mother’s Day, and Christmas when my brother would come and visit voluntarily – but even on those occasions, it was excruciating.

My once fun-loving brother had turned into this bitter, resentful, angry man, and none of us could understand why.

I felt the least he owed us was an explanation or an apology, but my brother carried on as though nothing had happened.

I never realised my brother’s behaviour was controlling until I watched Channel 4 news one night. They featured a report, where a lady committed suicide after controlling behaviour and domestic abuse.The abuser had used the some of the same language my brother used towards me.

I then realised I’d effectively been in an abusive relationship with my brother.

When my mum died in 2024 my brother’s controlling nature became all too obvious.

The very next day, when I was at my weakest, he came over and announced he was moving back in with me. 

I was living in the house I grew up in as I was my mum’s carer, and the house had been adapted to our specific health needs.

He then told me where I could sleep, how he planned to decorate the room I would be staying in, renovations he wanted, and even how I could spend our inheritance.

I was cross with myself for nodding along in agreement. However, I was struggling with processing my mum’s death.

I was in panic mode on the inside and later, after confiding to a friend, I was in floods of tears at the thought of him moving back. 

My brother’s comment, calling me a s****ic cut like a knife and lingered with me – until the next time, and the next

After a few months, when I was feeling stronger, I told him he couldn’t make the changes because the house had been adapted.

In response, he went downstairs and shouted ‘c**ts’.

At first, I thought: At least it wasn’t the hours of abuse we’d all been putting up with before.

But then I started to think: That sort of language isn’t acceptable towards anyone, especially the people you’re supposed to love and care about the most.

I realised I had become conditioned to accept his abusive behaviour.

Fortunately, he decided not to move in, which was a terrific relief. 

After my mum’s death, we made an effort to stay in touch more. However, most of his calls were full of negativity.

Last year, I finally had to let my brother go.

He called me ahead of his birthday and told me his frustrations with wanting to become a homeowner. 

So I offered that when our parents’ house became ours, I would give him enough for a deposit on his own place in exchange for a percentage of his half of the house.

He threw the offer straight back into my face, telling me, ‘It’s your fault I can’t get a mortgage because you won’t act as a guarantor’ – which he needs because of his poor credit, but I won’t risk my accessible home.

After that call, I felt so low and desperate. 

Briefly, I thought it would be easier if I weren’t here.

That was the moment I cut contact. After a few weeks of silence, I was always the one to reach out. I now understood that my brother took my kindness as weakness. 

We now only interact on things like birthdays and Christmas, and even then, it’s on my terms, not his.

Now I feel much lighter and more focused on making my accessible home truly mine.

Cutting contact with him was a signal of my new-found emotional strength. 

I’m ready to move on – for my benefit.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

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