Today I wrote a two-page letter,

Draft after draft after draft, I cried. This letter was the hardest thing I have ever written—a letter to the judge presiding over my brother's case. 

I can write novels, no problem. Because while my life still manifests within those pages, it's not real. It's very real content and very real emotion in a made-up scenario that is not my own. But putting together a string of sentences that speak about my brother's character is the hardest thing I've ever done, because it forced me to think back on a childhood I've spent my entire life trying to forget. 

Sometimes, I look at my life and I can't help but wonder how I got here. For all intents and purposes, I shouldn't be. If I didn't have my older brother, I'd probably be the one battling addiction and making poor life choices. 

People might look at his rap sheet and see a bad person. But police reports can't tell you why a person made the choices they did, and they won't show you how a brother's love for his sister got him his first misdemeanor. Or how on that day, he saved my life. 

It won't show you that a child without a support system, parents, or family might find those things in different places. I became an empty shell of a person, defensive, reclusive—an easy target for a long list of emotionally abusive and narcissistic relationships. Only adding to my mistrust and unease. He sought out love and trust, but found it in the wrong people, who used him as a scapegoat.

Still, he's a good person. 

Shitty things happen to good people. That doesn't make him a bad person; it makes him a good person who's never had a good life. 

What do you think? Do crimes define a person? Do redemption ARCS exist in reality? Or is that simply a fantasy?

With Moonlit Regards,

S. Huffman