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One of the worst things about having grown up as a child forced to take on roles that were not my own is the chances I’ve lost as a result. I’ve never been a sister. I have been a precocious surrogate mother. I can’t seem to extricate myself from that position now no matter what I do.
The man I’ve thought of my entire life as my father has prostrate cancer. When he called and told me, I sat down and told my family. We’re lucky; it was caught early and the prognosis is very good. That hasn’t stopped us from all being collectively rattled, which would make it a perfect time for the battle between me and my sister to begin once more.
I’m the eldest by seven years and as long as I’ve been witness to all things secret in my family, which is as long as I’ve drawn breath, I’ve been the vault. Where all secrets go to die slow, painful deaths and I remain their guardian. My sister has been sheltered. The one to be protected and watched. We both have our reasons for resentment and anger. I found out after the fact that I wasn’t supposed to tell her about my godfather’s prostate cancer but that isn’t where things got heated. The issue today was her medication as it has been for the last couple of years since she was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She doesn’t want to take this new round of meds anymore and has preemptively defended herself against my disappointment and frustration.
The problem for me was that I’m not angry, disappointed or upset that she wants to stop her current regimen. She’s an adult. It’s her body and her choice. This all led to a moment where she was furious and incapable of hearing that I wasn’t judging her. I grew increasingly angry that here I was once again in the position of arguing about her life with her as though I were in charge. Doors were slammed and I ended up in this chair trying desperately to make my heart stop pounding.
I see how it happens and my role in the situation. I was the one who helped with her homework, fixed dinner, fought with her and for her. I comforted and held her when she was upset and cleaned skinned knees. We have very different perceptions of those years of her childhood. I never wanted to be in that position with her; parenting her while Mom was at work and being her adult female figure. I was a child myself, I still want to scream.
It’s irrelevant to her that it wasn’t what I wanted because I was in that position. It’s what I was to her. It’s what I’ll be to her, to some degree, for the rest of her life. I’d hoped that eventually once we were both adults, there’d be a chance that we’d be able to deal with each other as equals but as time goes on that seems unlikely. She wants me to be proud of her, to validate her, and I want what I feel like I never got— the chance to have a sibling without that added power dynamic constantly in the way. I do not want to be her superior. I am not perfect, I don’t have the answers and it’s exhausting to be the person most likely to meet up with her adolescent rebellious anger in a dark alley. I’m sick of being alone and unrepresented in my own home. I am here and I’m tired of being seen through a framework I did not build. I ached for a sister before she was born. I never once dreamt of daughters.
I tried talking to her and I think we reached a point where my words started to make an impact. I just wish that more often than not I wasn’t left feeling more unsure after a conversation than before we started speaking.