I wish my brother had actually killed himself that day. He led his friends on in to thinking he did, then got shocked when police were called. They banged on the door and shone lights through the windows—it was 1 am. So many things have happened since then, and yet I am supposed to give him “grace” because he has occasional psychosis and depression. Fine, those are contributors, but I will never forgive him for traumatizing me over and over and then acting like we’re besties. I don’t plan to talk to any of my family after I move away for college. I wish I didn’t have to, but I’m scared I’ll snap and hurt them if I stay. Why do they all get therapy but me? My doctor has even said I need a therapist. I hope they will never visit me in Denmark or New Zealand.