<font color="blue"> </font> Today is the 12th aniverary of the death of my youngest brother to Aids. His name was Marshall and sad to say he was not happy with me when he went. I moved to New Orleans to live with him and his partner, because of a bad realtionship I needed to get away from.This was in 1987 (from Michigan, where all the rest of the family is). Got a job and my own place. I didn't know at the time that he had his horrific disease until I'd been living there for about 3 years. I didn't realize until later that what he really wanted from me was to be there for him when he got to the point he couldn't take it anymore and got help to go out before the diease got worse.
What happened to me is I couldn't cope with it. A t told me it was my mind becoming overwhelmed with living in a different city, plus learning of about his health. Overwhelmed or what ever, what I call the other selves started to present themselves and bringing with them the memories they had been keeping. Because Marshall and I were so close of course I told him what was going on. Because I used a method of therapy he didn't agree with he spent the rest of our time together obsessed with finding different theories as to what was really wrong with me. At first when I told him I started having memories of sexual abuse he believed me. The minute I told him about the other selves that ended that. I loved my brother very much, but the closer to death he got the more controlling he got. Just sad. I don't hold any anger towards him, because wherever he is he now he knows the truth. I know he still looks over my adult kids, because he was so close to them.