’Twas the night before Christmas when my little brother punched me in the face. It wasn’t a proper punch, meant to inflict injury, but restrained. But if it was not intended to hurt me, nor was it thrown wastefully. This quick jab, delivered with absolute precision just below my left eye, was more like a warning shot, encoded with the justifiable rage he felt towards me for all the years I had been gone.

In lower class communities, violence is a complicated matter, a form of communication, a rich language in which many of us are not only fluent but frighteningly articulate.

That night, when my little brother hit me, I left with more than a sore face to think about

The reason I was so stunned at the time was not just because my brother had punched me, but because I was so preoccupied with myself that I was utterly oblivious to his feelings. I was then a self-absorbed, emotionally unavailable and delusional alcoholic.

My little brother was rightfully angry because I had arrived, as I often did, with drink in me and being a smart-arse, thinking some red carpet ought to be rolled out for my long-awaited return – despite my having made no attempt to contact any of my family. Sometimes they went for months, even years, without hearing from me.

My brother and I were close as children. We played at wrestling, football and computer games together. He followed me everywhere, whether to the concrete square across from our house where we’d demoralise anyone who took us on, or down the bushes, behind a closed-down community centre (where football had once been played), where I had my first “nip”, Glaswegian for an open-mouthed kiss.

As I began to peel off into my teenage years, he became a source of deep irritation as I morphed into a precocious and insensitive, often vicious, silver-tongued twat, who used words as weapons because I was already fed up with – and didn’t much enjoy – the act of physically fighting.

I used to tease him about his glasses, his appearance. I’d make fun of his mispronunciation of words, or when he would get the lyrics to songs wrong. I used to tell myself this bullying was all part of sibling relations. He wasn’t the most confident kid and I projected my own insecurities on to him, by making a bit of a public show of his apparent weaknesses.

That Christmas when I paraded in, keen to be the centre of attention, I probably reverted to that unlikable persona, conflating playful affection with bullying. But my brother was no longer a boy. He was becoming a man and he was hurting. He was angry with me because I hadn’t been there for him. Worse, I was oblivious to his pain, so wrapped up was I in my own problems, as alcoholics often are.

That night, when he hit me, I left with more than a sore face to think about. This act of seeming violence catalysed a period of self-reflection which later became the cornerstone of my recovery from alcoholism.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest It is counterintuitive to accept that your own trauma may have found expression as the source of another loved one’s pain. Photograph: Matt Cardy/Getty Images

At first, it was horrifying to confront the fact that I, rather than merely a victim of my dead mother’s destructive drinking, emotional unavailability and absence, had become a perpetrator of emotional harm and neglect myself – the main casualties being my four siblings.

When it was time to get sober, the realisation of the heartache I had caused them, not by being a drunk but by being completely absent for long periods of their precarious teenage lives, became a source of inspiration and shame.

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It is counterintuitive, particularly when you have been the victim of someone else’s abuse, to accept that your own trauma may have found expression as the source of another loved one’s pain, that you may be repeating the emotionally toxic behaviour in which your own sense of victimhood is rooted.

It’s often at Christmas, when there is an expectation on families not only to congregate and be merry but to enjoy one another’s company, that the true interiors of our stormy inner worlds inconveniently reveal themselves.

And while violence can rarely be excused, the most memorable punch in the face I have ever received was the one I thoroughly deserved.

• Darren McGarvey is a hip-hop artist, social commentator and author of Poverty Safari: Understanding the Anger of Britain’s Underclass (Luath Press).