The One

I know what you’re thinking. Here we go, another sappy love story. You’re totally wrong. This isn’t about a couple’s love story. Well, not in the usual way. This is about siblings.

I’m talking about that person or those people you grew up with, the one who beat you up with a tough, plastic-headed baby doll. I’m talking about the one you tormented with dead things. Yes, it’s them.

Growing up is hard. I believe it is eighteen years of growing pains, followed by years and years of trial and error in life. Then, if you are lucky, you get to have a calm middle age and or retirement, loving on grandkids.

I have one younger sister. We were raised to be close and to stay together. That was the only good part of childhood for me. I had a very tough upbringing. My parents were not ideal. One was abusive, and the other was cold. My sister was all I had, and it was all we both had to hold onto during the hard times.

She was the baby-doll bandit I spoke of earlier. She wielded that thing like King Arthur’s sword. I was the sparring partner. I use partner very loosely. I was more like a victim of a terrorist.

She was my baby sister, and no matter how mean she got, I could not lash out at her in retaliation. I was her protector and her rock. At least I hope that is how she felt. I tried to take the brunt of the abuse, though we both got our fair share of the end of our dad’s tool of choice for the day.

We always were and have remained each other’s confidants, even against our parents. Don’t get me wrong, we had our share of fights. Being one and a half years apart sometimes made things too close for comfort.

We shared friends, even though we probably didn’t want to have any in common; we shared matching clothes, even though we would have preferred to be individuals. We had similar tastes in many areas. We were also opposites in many ways, which led to conflict and mini world wars.

We look nothing alike. She took after my dad’s size in hair and complexion, whereas I took after my mom’s. We had different styles in clothing, in boys, and in fun. I was the geeky nerd, she was the outgoing, fun one. I read, she played, and so on.

Our life experiences were the same shared terror, and only enough, we both married the same man. Not the actual man, but men of the same temperament. We both married very soft-spoken gentlemen with a lot of patience for our childhood issues. These men of ours are kind, sweet, peaceful, and calm spirits, the exact opposite of our father. That’s not shocking, if you think about it.

My sister and I don't see eye to eye on politics, faith, or how to do things, but diplomacy is a natural instinct among siblings, and you learn to be accepting.

There will always be very stark contrasts between us. But I will say this about us, “We would die for the other.”

She’s sentimental about our commitment to each other. She sends me music she says reminds her of me. I am not sentimental at all. She calls it cold, but I call it my defense. I love deeply, but I am careful about who I love and how I do. It’s the result of how we were raised.

My sister is the empathetic one, and I am the skeptic. Her caring nature often made her a pushover for many, especially my dad, who took advantage of that. I became her protector, even when she didn’t want or realize she needed it. It’s always been my job to keep her safe, and it always will be. She’s my baby sister.

We still frequently get into fights. When things settle down, we're back to being close friends. That’s just the sibling cycle. You argue, forgive, make up, and then fight again. We never stay mad at each other for long. We can’t. She’s all I have, and I’m all she has. We understand this.

There is hardly anything we will leave untouched between us, but recently, something happened that made me cautious about mentioning it to her. Our dad passed away.

I can’t lie and won’t lie about the fact that I didn’t grieve like many children do for a deceased parent. I didn’t cry or suffer from depression because of it. My sister did. She mourned him deeply. Every little detail of life, every holiday or special occasion, brought back memories for her, and she would break down. I was free.

I no longer had to fear his calls. I didn’t have to let him come to my house and show hostility toward my other guests or me. I didn’t have to walk on eggshells anymore.

My sister had the same fears I did, but she chose a different tack. She can’t say no, and her fears of abandonment made her all too accommodating.

People often fail to realize the effect they have on others’ lives. Everything you do has an impact, whether positive or negative. For my sister, our mother’s abandonment and father’s abuse created a fear so deep that she naturally goes above and beyond to avoid experiencing anyone’s anger or disgust. She cannot tolerate anyone’s disdain. She needs to feel loved and accepted.

Actually, I need the opposite. I don’t feel the need to cater to anyone’s perception of me. They can like me or not, love me or not. I understand both emotions and feelings, and I can dismiss the negative while embracing the positive. My indifference is toward doing things specifically to make someone like or love me. I won’t do that. I am who I am. Take it or leave it. No worries. It’s my defense mechanism, I suppose. Being hurt by someone you love and loving someone who hurts you creates a crazy dichotomy.

So, essentially, this is how we both coped with our dad’s death. She was afraid that if she didn’t grieve openly and passionately, people would see her as a bad person. She is not. She is one of the most giving and loving people I know. She is loyal to a fault, too.

Since my dad passed away, she has been on an emotional roller coaster. She wasn’t processing everything all at once; instead, she had separated her inner child’s love for a parent from her logical, analytical mind. I thought she was in denial, and she was partly. But outwardly, it looked like she had forgotten every detail of our shared history with Dad.

I did not touch that. I did not feel the same. I couldn’t. I didn’t lie about it, but I didn’t open up either. I helped her get through her tearful memories and distracted her when I knew they were coming, like holidays and birthdays. It’s not easy or fun to avoid conversations with the one person you share every moment of your life with.

Yesterday, it finally happened—the moment I never expected. She got mad. She wasn’t mad at me; she often gets upset, but this time was different. She was angry at our dad. She started to remember and process all the years of trauma.

Her epiphany occurred when her annoyed son pointed it out. He compared her to Dad, which was the trigger to drain the cesspool. The memories flooded back, and the anger she had been hiding and repressing came into focus. I’d love to say I felt bad for her, but I didn’t. I felt relieved. She finally expressed her feelings, her true feelings. And she did that with me, and I with her.

My nephew never experienced my dad the way we did. He never saw that side of him; only the loving grandfather. He'd never heard or seen the fights she had with dad, or the arguments I had with him, over his influence on this young boy’s life. He was unaware. The comparison broke his mom, and she lost control.

She managed to share some details with him and stood up for herself. She told him that she was totally wrong. That was when I stepped in.

I hadn’t heard from her in a couple of days, and she hadn’t responded to texts. She always responds; she’s the keep-in-touch police. So I called her and finally got her on the line. She shared her story with me and then started to question how she’s been grieving all this time.

She remembers things that I have forgotten and vice versa, about our childhood. That’s when I was able to explain why I didn’t grieve in the way she thought I should have. And she understood.

I listened to her. I affirmed her. I told her it is perfectly fine not to grieve the way someone else thinks you should. I told her it’s okay to be mad. I helped her understand that no one else can judge her. They weren’t there for any of the pain, if at all. She finally gave herself permission to dislike our dad. She had to give herself permission to feel free. That is not an easy thing, under repression.

Moments like these happen throughout life. My sister has supported me many times over the years. She helped me get through a six-year marriage that was a disaster. It’s a two-way street, never one-sided.

Everything in life has effects. None is more critical and important than the effects you have on your children. Please don’t ever forget that.

My sister has my back, and I have hers. We always support each other. She is my grounding force, and I am her rock of Gibraltar. The sibling bond is unlike any other. Whether adversarial or not, a brother or sister is the most important and needed person you’ll ever have in your life. No one, not even a spouse, will know every corner and detail of you as a sibling does. Cherish them and that bond. They aren’t just a relationship; they are the only ones who truly understand you on a cellular level.

Go call your sibling(s) and tell them you love them, because you know you do. Make sure they know it too.

#family #relationships #story #life #siblings