My brother proved that the bond of blood means nothing

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What do you call a brother who has never really been your brother? Maybe I’m too influenced by the media in how siblings should interact, and maybe I’m expecting too much of my elder brother of two years, but he’s never really felt like what a brother should be. My father would always say we were like Bart and Lisa Simpson in the way we fought as kids, constantly at each other’s throats. Except that all those nice moments in the show never happened, no matter how much I wanted them.

Recalling Fonder Times in Our Childhood

I can recall two times in our childhood that…


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Everyone has a breaking point, and after years of fighting depression and anxiety on my own, I reached mine. It was January 2016, and I was going to be unemployed in two weeks as my contract with my employer at the time was ending. It was a terrible job, but it was full time and paid more than minimum wage, so losing it was causing a lot of stress. It was enough for me to finally get low enough that I had to ask for help.

It’s a long story as to why I didn’t ask for help before that…


You can consciously forget just how much it hurts, can empathize with others, but until it happens again, you don’t really remember. Kneeling next to them on the floor, holding them on the table or in bed one last time. Maybe we block it out. Force ourselves to forget in the mind but the soul remembers.

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The heart still throbs with just a thought.

When it could happen again.

When it does happen again.

You think you won’t forget this time, but you will. The pain goes from the head to the chest and settles in. Makes a bed and lies there — the only part of you that’s willing to accept this new reality.

And every so often it’ll beat its fists against your ribcage to remind you that it’s not gone.

Never gone.

Just…dormant.

Just waiting to come out in your dreams.


I thought I was just a late bloomer

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There was a time when I thought every woman would stand with a man.

Then I learned that women could stand with women, and men with men. Then I learned that even that could change, and sexuality isn’t a two-box ballot.

But I didn’t seem to have a box on the sheet, and I didn’t have anyone I wanted to stand with. The journey to accepting my asexuality was oddly long and short. Contradictory and just plain messy.

When I was in grade seven, my friend talked about their crush.

He was a high school student doing a co-op in their class, and had that early 2000sflops of brow hair all boys seemed to have. They would giggle and blush when he walked by, or strive…

Mina Krane

Ace, healing, and always learning. Writing about mental health, sexuality and other things. www.minakrane.com

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