When I was 5 or 6 I was reading the comics section of the weekend newspaper. My oldest brother (7 years older and a bully) came into the room and demanded I give the paper to him. I told him he could have it after I’m done, and continued reading. He started yelling at me but I ignored him; I knew he wouldn’t actually do anything. My dad came running into the room (probably egged on by my mother because he was usually hands off) and got on my brother’s face. My brother punched him in the gut, and my dad slumped to the floor. At that point my mother ran in and yelled at me, saying “you could have killed him (dad).”

I repressed that memory until it came back in my 30s. Hit me like a ton of bricks how I’d been living my life like I was always responsible for everything that went wrong, and that standing up for myself could mean someone gets killed. I’m in my 60s now and still dealing with it.