I’ve been caring for my brother for five years now. I’m twenty-eight, and he’s twenty-five. And if I’m being completely honest—I can’t stand him anymore. I’ve stopped helping him try to get better because I just don’t have it in me. I’m empty.
Every day, he finds new ways to tear me down. He calls me stupid. Worthless. Says nobody will ever like me. Then come the lectures—hours of him listing everything I’ve ever done wrong. Sometimes it goes on for five hours straight, sometimes more. I sit there, trying to remind myself that he’s sick, that he’s struggling, that this is his pain talking. But after a while, logic doesn’t matter. Words still bruise.
I gave up my own life to help him. Friends faded. Work fell apart. And in return, I got nothing but criticism and cruelty. I try to explain how his words affect me, but he tells me to grow up—to live a day in his shoes. I know he’s hurting. I know he doesn’t mean every word. But I’m still here taking every hit, and it feels like I’m disappearing in the process.
Some nights, I wish someone else would step in, take over, give me a break. But nobody does. Nobody cares for him the way I do, and maybe that’s why I’m still here—because someone has to be. Even when it feels like love has turned into punishment.
I don’t think I’m evil for feeling this way. I think I’m human. I think I’m tired of being a punching bag in the name of care.
Editor’s Reflection (by Jessica Campos)
Maya’s story reminds us that caregiving isn’t always tender—it can also be tangled, painful, and unfair. Love doesn’t erase the harm of words, and endurance isn’t the same as peace. If you’ve ever felt torn between compassion and self-preservation, know this: boundaries are not betrayal. Sometimes care begins with protecting your own heart.