Every dysfunctional family system seems to require a patriarchal figure to maintain its fragile balance. After my father’s death in late 2019, complex dynamics quickly created the opportunity for my youngest brother (YB) to step into that role, bypassing the older brother.

At first, it seemed as though my father’s death might also mark the end of his abusive legacy. But this healthier dynamic was fleeting. Within months, YB—who had previously expressed admiration for my sister and me for recognizing our father’s malignant nature long before our brothers did—began to perpetuate the very behaviors he had once condemned.

By the time our mother passed six months later, YB had fully assumed the patriarchal role. He denied us any claim to her possessions and even lied to the Medical Examiner to maintain control. Despite asking us to share the costs of her cremation, he unilaterally dictated the arrangements for her memorial and burial

The service was impersonal, led by a minister who had never met our mother and was given little information about her life. His reading lacked any meaningful reflection of her humanity—nothing about her passion for justice, her love of the oceans, or her landmark legal case before the California Supreme Court. Instead, it focused on the “complexities” of our relationships, erasing the vibrant person she was.

YB was displeased that I didn’t endure the physical pain and financial burden of attending his carefully curated, hollow event. With my disabilities, attending would have required days of recovery and significant expense, sacrifices I couldn’t afford while fighting for my survival.

As far as I know, I’m the only one who spoke up about the memorial. Based on what our early environment taught my other siblings, they believe their silence and compliance will protect them, in part because the dissident is attacked and outcast, a wholly terrifying concept for those who gain benefit from the domination hierarchy. 

YB’s behavior reflects his internalized role within our dysfunctional family system. In a hierarchy defined by domination and submission, he instinctively stepped into the role of enforcer after our father’s death, perpetuating the dynamics he knew. This is not about genuine strength or leadership but about perpetuating the familiar dynamics of power that define the family.

Sixteen months later, YB’s patriarchal tendencies intensified. When I revealed my struggles with recovery from severe medical abuse, his response was not compassion but exploitation. He used my vulnerability to reassert control, mirroring the same dominance and disregard for others that defined our father. It was almost like a switch had flipped. Instead of offering compassion, assistance, and protection, he exploited my vulnerability, perpetuating harm where there should have been care. 

He took my vulnerability as an opportunity to exert his dominance. Rather than responding with care, attunement, or empathy, YB was compelled to dominate to restore what he perceived as order. This drive to dominate often stems from unresolved fear or insecurity within the person wielding power. It’s not about me as an individual but about YB’s own need to feel in control in a system where control equates safety.

YB’s jackal-like behavior—asserting dominance only when I was at my weakest—reveals the fragility of his power. It was not genuine strength but opportunistic control, rooted in the same fear and insecurity that drove our father.

Bullies operate from a place of insecurity, fear, or unresolved pain, seeking control and dominance over others as a way to feel powerful or safe. They often target those who are vulnerable, not because they’re inherently strong, but because the vulnerability of others provides an easy way to assert their dominance without risking their own position.

Fascinatingly, my brother wasn’t just bullying me as an individual; he was acting out a learned role within a hierarchical and compassionless family system. The family structure gave him the script, and he used my illness as a stage to perform it. 

The massive trauma I’ve experienced hasn’t stripped me of my integrity or my ability to connect with others in meaningful ways. My refusal to become like my father or YB is its own form of triumph, a defiance of the toxic dynamics that have shaped so much of my life. Even in the face of overwhelming cruelty, I’ve chosen a different path, one rooted in understanding, accountability, and the pursuit of something better. That choice is a powerful act of resistance and healing.

Understanding these dynamics gives me strength. It allows me to see YB’s actions for what they are: a reflection of his own unresolved pain, not my worth. This clarity fuels my resolve to break free from the toxic system that shaped him and to define my life on my own terms, grounded in compassion, integrity, and resilience