His Big Brother’s Keeper
Hail to the Principled Siblings of Trans
This is a continuation of my PITT story from last July.
This installment salutes our two supportive adult children and all the non-parental relatives of trans cult victims who live our agony on top of their own, listen to our grievances, and serve us tea and sympathy. You are much more than the shoulders we cry on. You are our co-activists, proof-readers, sounding boards, validators. Some of you have contributed essays to this channel:
You see clear through the queer ecosystem’s methods and hogwash. You do not allow the howling masses to intimidate you. You, the perceptive brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, cousins, grandparents and steps courageously repudiate the trans insanity.
You are the counterweight to so many misguided siblings, like the one who sneakily usurped the role of mother in order to win the title of “glitter mom.”
1995, Womack Army Hospital: Three-year-old Ricky fidgeted around the Maternity waiting room. He knew his little brother Joshua was on his way into the world. He was already in love with him and he needed no urging to be the first to hold him.
I have it all on video.
Who could have imagined during the following twenty-six years Ricky would go from this:
Joshua never imagined it and still, at age 28, has not fathomed that Ricky is now a fully seduced and gelded member of the feel-good stable of trans, a commune tailored to the impulses of troubled, self-absorbed, despondent youth.
Joshua’s denial that Ricky has truly submitted to the complete, experimental castration process is understandable. He focuses on the good memories instead: Ricky’s protection and mentorship while growing up. Rescuing him when the babysitter left the house. The camping trips. Teaching him street smarts. He only wants Ricky back.
Not an ounce of hate in Joshua. Despite that Ricky abandoned him in 2006, lumping him with the rest of the household as mere annoying, judgmental straights whom he had to put up with until he was old enough to leave the house. I cannot calculate the degree to which this demoralized the preteen Joshua.
Ricky would re-abandon Joshua in 2021 after a few phone calls promising him he would make up for the past. Joshua rightly blamed the cult, not Ricky.
Ricky’s oldest sister Miranda watched over him like a mother hen and was the consummate babysitter. Ricky drew out Miranda’s protective maternal instincts at a young age. When Ricky detoured his affections from his family and toward the unseen degenerates online, he drew further away from Miranda. In spite of this, Miranda let Ricky live with her rent-free for a few months. She tried diplomacy by suggesting gay-friendly establishments where housebound, loner Ricky might find a job. But her tough love methods clashed with Ricky’s effeminized heart. Ricky expelled Miranda from his life.
The trauma done to Miranda and Joshua is immense. Ricky: Gone. Ricky’s ally sibling: Gone. Their sweetheart niece: Gone. Both have erected emotional fences of normalcy to contain the loss and sense of betrayal. The fence disappears when sleep arrives, and nightmares invade the subconscious. The trans movement’s wrecking ball smashed not only their beloved brother’s pristine body and will, but also the heart of our family unit.
This is a classic need for professional help. So, what is the response of America’s therapists? Pills.
The US Mental Health Profession is Atrocious.
I wanted to challenge my firmly held belief that almost all behavioral health clinicians are henpecked LGBT∞ sellouts. (That’s right—LGBT infinity. As long as we allow it, they will indefinitely allow new perversions into their fold.) So I re-entered therapy at the VA. My goals were twofold: To get my increased PTSD re-assessed and to war game options for therapy for Ricky’s two suffering siblings.
When I entered the VA facility’s Behavioral Health clinic, the first thing I saw was this sign behind the front desk:
God help our military.
I told the psychiatrist that I care zero about pronouns and care even less about the VA’s ingratiating promotion of LGBT∞’s priorities and feelings. After patiently hearing my rant, the kindly gentleman explained that his only role was to consider the appropriateness of sleep medication for me. He suggested that Miranda and Ricky seek depression medication from another therapist. I told him no thank you and left.
The fruits of decades of Freudian psychology. I’ll take Thomas Kempis any day.
So we do what we can to ease Joshua and Miranda’s burden by notching up our participation in their lives. We take morale trips to places they like. We are wearing out the backyard grill. Miranda and her Mom do nails together. Joshua and I watch sports, and I often accompany him on his food deliveries. Rosaries.
You two, the oldest and youngest of our children, are our solid brass bookends. You remained close to us after living day to day in the house with Ricky when the cross-sex horror surged into fourth gear the year before he finished high school. You suffered the massive shock and awe of your brother’s inexplicable reversal of his pleasant, engaging personality.
I say to all the strong siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews out there who have weathered your pain in silent dignity so that you could be strong for us, the afflicted parents: We notice you and appreciate you though we appear mired in self-pity. We heartbroken parents of estranged trans identified children cannot give you sufficient reward for your unselfish support. I especially praise the younger ones whose peers are the most strongly indoctrinated and require extra strength to resist.
Hold onto your Faith with a death grip and cede nothing to the Luciferians who are no longer behind the scenes, but are now in open defiance of God and the natural law. The LGBT∞’s endgame is not to halt “gay-bashing” or even to increase their membership, it is universal concurrence with their precept that they know better than God. Read Genesis 19, verse 9 carefully. The cult masterminds want you to believe they are winning, but they have no currency in Heaven; no saintly underwriters.
Joshua, the day will come when you will see an update to the picture above. Instead of Ricky whispering his rock-skimming tips from your shoulder, he will be draped ON your shoulder as you carry him home. You will say in the words that Father Edward J. Flanagan adopted:
“He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. Again.”