Once upon a time, there was a little baby. He was round and sweet with ten fingers and ten toes. He had huge brown eyes and dark, long eyelashes. His baby soft hair was curly with those springy open curls that wrap around your fingers when you touch them. He was smart and so adorable. His skin was a light brown and soft as only a baby's skin can be. He had the most lilting laugh, bubbly and wonderful to hear. I loved him, cared for him, fed him, changed his diapers, held him, kissed his toes and fell in love with him so deeply. I was twelve years old.
As he grew, I took his little hand and showed him the world. I watched him, protected him, and defended him. When the typhoon raged at night, I would steal into his room, which was the farthest from everyone's, and carry him to mine and place him into my double bed so he could be with me; in case he awoke in fear. I held him close and comforted him when he was afraid. I played with him and his little friends and dressed him up and took him trick-or-treating on Halloweens. I made tents for him and helped him play. I washed his clothes and cleaned his room. I made his lunch and ate with him. When he was six years old, I carried him on my back up and down the hills of Jerusalem because his little feet were too tired to go as far as he wanted to go. When he was in school, I baked and decorated cookies and cupcakes for Halloween and Christmas and brought them to his class. I drove him to concerts and made banners for us to hold so we could scream our lungs out; I didn't know who the bands were but he did. I drove him out in the forest to get him out of the house after his accident because he hated being cooped up. I played "spoons" with him and his friends and made him designer look-alike shirts.
I drove him and his friends to midnight showings of Rocky Horror Picture Show and did all the fun stuff with the squirt guns and rice. Then I drove them to late-night fast food places so they could squirt the window cashiers. We laughed and laughed and had so much fun. When other grown sisters would have been off doing their own thing; I spent time with him and his friends so he could go places because he couldn't drive yet. I treated him to movies, lunch out, and concerts.
I loved watching him grow and change. I remember him calling the storm "roughy funder" and seeing his eyes light up at Christmas time. I remember him laughing and running outside and his amazing eloquence. I remember his jokes and his freckles. I remember his playfulness and caring. I remember his intelligence; he was so smart and insightful. I remember how sweet he was when I tucked him in for nap time or bed time; he didn't want to go but he was so good he would do it anyway. He was always so well behaved and a good friend to his buddies. His loyalty and generosity were wonderful to see.
I got married when he was six years old and went away but I came back a year later and stayed for several years. I moved out again with a boyfriend but came back again when that didn't work out. I took care of him when our mother went to Texas and took him camping with me because he liked camping. The one day, I married again, he was 15 and gave me away. After that, we rarely saw each other because I moved away and began raising my own family.
Yet I never forgot that little boy, my baby brother, deep in my heart. He has a place, a him-shaped place in my heart that no one else can ever fill.
Now we are both grown and we cannot relate to one another. Our mother has damaged us both and has tried ( and succeeded) to stir dissention between us. He has a wife and children but he thinks I am the wrong one, the overreacting one. We grew up in a dysfunctional home, our mother was a narcissist who wove her web of harm to me and favoritism to him. Despite this, I always loved him, I never begrudged him his successes or felt jealous of his money or his life. I just want him to be happy because he is the first child I ever loved and cared for and I cannot imagine wanting to be (or have) better than him. He feels like my first child but not.
But now we are apart; he is still in the dysfunction while I have been through therapy and can no longer tolerate being hurt by him or our mother so I have had to walk away. This year seems full of walking-aways. I feel deep grief and sadness; I have loved him as long as he has lived, almost 40 years, and there is a hole in my heart still shaped like him that cannot be filled. He brushes off my deep feelings for him and only when we relate on a superficial level does he show a softness to me when he looks at me and even more when he looks at my children. Yet when I mention the dysfunction; he grows hard and condescending. This reaction is not his fault (because of the dysfunction) but it feels like a knife is turning in a fresh and unhealed wound.
My baby brother. I miss you, I love you, why do you have to suffer and why does that suffering mean I cannot relate to you? Why can't I help you? This hurts so badly; as though he has died. Why can't we be close? Why can't we be friends? And will the pain ever go away?
As he grew, I took his little hand and showed him the world. I watched him, protected him, and defended him. When the typhoon raged at night, I would steal into his room, which was the farthest from everyone's, and carry him to mine and place him into my double bed so he could be with me; in case he awoke in fear. I held him close and comforted him when he was afraid. I played with him and his little friends and dressed him up and took him trick-or-treating on Halloweens. I made tents for him and helped him play. I washed his clothes and cleaned his room. I made his lunch and ate with him. When he was six years old, I carried him on my back up and down the hills of Jerusalem because his little feet were too tired to go as far as he wanted to go. When he was in school, I baked and decorated cookies and cupcakes for Halloween and Christmas and brought them to his class. I drove him to concerts and made banners for us to hold so we could scream our lungs out; I didn't know who the bands were but he did. I drove him out in the forest to get him out of the house after his accident because he hated being cooped up. I played "spoons" with him and his friends and made him designer look-alike shirts.
I drove him and his friends to midnight showings of Rocky Horror Picture Show and did all the fun stuff with the squirt guns and rice. Then I drove them to late-night fast food places so they could squirt the window cashiers. We laughed and laughed and had so much fun. When other grown sisters would have been off doing their own thing; I spent time with him and his friends so he could go places because he couldn't drive yet. I treated him to movies, lunch out, and concerts.
I loved watching him grow and change. I remember him calling the storm "roughy funder" and seeing his eyes light up at Christmas time. I remember him laughing and running outside and his amazing eloquence. I remember his jokes and his freckles. I remember his playfulness and caring. I remember his intelligence; he was so smart and insightful. I remember how sweet he was when I tucked him in for nap time or bed time; he didn't want to go but he was so good he would do it anyway. He was always so well behaved and a good friend to his buddies. His loyalty and generosity were wonderful to see.
I got married when he was six years old and went away but I came back a year later and stayed for several years. I moved out again with a boyfriend but came back again when that didn't work out. I took care of him when our mother went to Texas and took him camping with me because he liked camping. The one day, I married again, he was 15 and gave me away. After that, we rarely saw each other because I moved away and began raising my own family.
Yet I never forgot that little boy, my baby brother, deep in my heart. He has a place, a him-shaped place in my heart that no one else can ever fill.
Now we are both grown and we cannot relate to one another. Our mother has damaged us both and has tried ( and succeeded) to stir dissention between us. He has a wife and children but he thinks I am the wrong one, the overreacting one. We grew up in a dysfunctional home, our mother was a narcissist who wove her web of harm to me and favoritism to him. Despite this, I always loved him, I never begrudged him his successes or felt jealous of his money or his life. I just want him to be happy because he is the first child I ever loved and cared for and I cannot imagine wanting to be (or have) better than him. He feels like my first child but not.
But now we are apart; he is still in the dysfunction while I have been through therapy and can no longer tolerate being hurt by him or our mother so I have had to walk away. This year seems full of walking-aways. I feel deep grief and sadness; I have loved him as long as he has lived, almost 40 years, and there is a hole in my heart still shaped like him that cannot be filled. He brushes off my deep feelings for him and only when we relate on a superficial level does he show a softness to me when he looks at me and even more when he looks at my children. Yet when I mention the dysfunction; he grows hard and condescending. This reaction is not his fault (because of the dysfunction) but it feels like a knife is turning in a fresh and unhealed wound.
My baby brother. I miss you, I love you, why do you have to suffer and why does that suffering mean I cannot relate to you? Why can't I help you? This hurts so badly; as though he has died. Why can't we be close? Why can't we be friends? And will the pain ever go away?
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