LJ Idol, Topic 20: "Open Topic"
One of my favourite goals to pursue is the idea of living my life with no regrets. I am quite enamored of the notion that I could own every decision I make, as well as the consequences, and still say that I would not change it. It's a lofty, almost laughably difficult aspiration, to be sure, and a razor-thin line to walk, but I've followed it closely enough to present it as almost entirely true. Almost.
Before I explain, let me make it clear that there has never been a moment when I have not loved my sister. For the first several years of her life, she and I were practically friends. I mean, excepting the times I called her "Booger baby!" and let her chase me around the house, we would play together with our toys and board games and watch the same cartoons and movies. Sometimes I think about reading books to her, even as old as thirteen, and I know that we could have been actual friends while growing up, had the deck not seemed so stacked against us from the beginning.
We were born to different fathers, you see - mine was a man unready for such a responsibility, and hers was a violent addict. You can guess which one my family favored, when the two were compared, and I think that was the beginning of our separation. It was hard for me not to take sides. After all, better an absentee who was never there than a man who would maul his own family, right? That was how I thought, how the rest of my family thought, and I never saw how it could possibly hurt my sister until I was older. Right from birth, she and I were set into dichotomous and opposing roles: The rebellious second born and the golden, model first born. Growing up, I never told them that it was wrong to think of us that way. I never told them that my sister didn't deserve to be spanked or grounded. I never told them that I wasn't better than her. I never told them birth order didn't matter, that she wasn't bad, or that she was every bit as smart and funny as they seemed to think I was.
Perhaps the greater crime is that I never told her any of that either.
Every time I told her it was uncool for me to hang out with my younger sister, I regret.
Every time I told her she couldn't climb into my bed with me when she was frightened, I regret.
Every time I fought with her about our fathers, I regret.
Every time I did not keep her secrets because they were against The Rules, I regret.
Every time I did not stand up for her, did not comfort her, did not do even the slightest thing that a sister should, I regret.
By the time I realized these things, I was sixteen and she was through with trying to be my little sister. She found her own friends, found her own ways to deal with problems instead of asking her big sister to listen and comfort, and was busy trying to define herself in the face of so much judgment and the role given to her. So, here I sit, seven years later, mourning the bond that I so mindlessly and selfishly eroded throughout our childhood. But even as I fight off the guilt and the tears, I remember good things too.
I remember that she never let her friends make fun of me for being disabled. I remember that even now, she still wants to do my hair and makeup, to share her love of something with me. I remember reading Harry Potter out loud and sharing a love of Artemis Fowl with her and laughing at stupid internet videos. I remember rewinding movies, as kids, over and over again while we laughed ourselves silly at the most ridiculously wonderful one-liners our movies possessed. I remember her helping me lose my first tooth, like a wild-eyed baby ninja stuffing her fist into my mouth and yanking it out (like a boss!)
But most importantly, I remember that I still have her around to love and that, while it may be too late to erase the regrets of my selfish childhood, maybe it's not too late to be a good sister.
This has been a non-fiction entry for the twentieth topic of LJ Idol's eighth season, which is an open topic.
I love you always, A.
Before I explain, let me make it clear that there has never been a moment when I have not loved my sister. For the first several years of her life, she and I were practically friends. I mean, excepting the times I called her "Booger baby!" and let her chase me around the house, we would play together with our toys and board games and watch the same cartoons and movies. Sometimes I think about reading books to her, even as old as thirteen, and I know that we could have been actual friends while growing up, had the deck not seemed so stacked against us from the beginning.
We were born to different fathers, you see - mine was a man unready for such a responsibility, and hers was a violent addict. You can guess which one my family favored, when the two were compared, and I think that was the beginning of our separation. It was hard for me not to take sides. After all, better an absentee who was never there than a man who would maul his own family, right? That was how I thought, how the rest of my family thought, and I never saw how it could possibly hurt my sister until I was older. Right from birth, she and I were set into dichotomous and opposing roles: The rebellious second born and the golden, model first born. Growing up, I never told them that it was wrong to think of us that way. I never told them that my sister didn't deserve to be spanked or grounded. I never told them that I wasn't better than her. I never told them birth order didn't matter, that she wasn't bad, or that she was every bit as smart and funny as they seemed to think I was.
Perhaps the greater crime is that I never told her any of that either.
Every time I told her it was uncool for me to hang out with my younger sister, I regret.
Every time I told her she couldn't climb into my bed with me when she was frightened, I regret.
Every time I fought with her about our fathers, I regret.
Every time I did not keep her secrets because they were against The Rules, I regret.
Every time I did not stand up for her, did not comfort her, did not do even the slightest thing that a sister should, I regret.
By the time I realized these things, I was sixteen and she was through with trying to be my little sister. She found her own friends, found her own ways to deal with problems instead of asking her big sister to listen and comfort, and was busy trying to define herself in the face of so much judgment and the role given to her. So, here I sit, seven years later, mourning the bond that I so mindlessly and selfishly eroded throughout our childhood. But even as I fight off the guilt and the tears, I remember good things too.
I remember that she never let her friends make fun of me for being disabled. I remember that even now, she still wants to do my hair and makeup, to share her love of something with me. I remember reading Harry Potter out loud and sharing a love of Artemis Fowl with her and laughing at stupid internet videos. I remember rewinding movies, as kids, over and over again while we laughed ourselves silly at the most ridiculously wonderful one-liners our movies possessed. I remember her helping me lose my first tooth, like a wild-eyed baby ninja stuffing her fist into my mouth and yanking it out (like a boss!)
But most importantly, I remember that I still have her around to love and that, while it may be too late to erase the regrets of my selfish childhood, maybe it's not too late to be a good sister.
This has been a non-fiction entry for the twentieth topic of LJ Idol's eighth season, which is an open topic.
I love you always, A.