We all have those stories

that our family tells.

Cute little anecdotes

that everyone

remembers in a similar way,

that somehow illustrate a quirk

or charming attribute

of the people in the story.

But sometimes

in the retelling,

we see something we didn’t see before.

A light bulb goes off.

A piece of information slides into place.

Suddenly

there’s an explanation.

“I’ll be nice to her until she’s two,

then she’s on her own.”

That is what my sister said

about me

when I was born.

Oh, what a sassy 6 year old,

everyone chuckled.

She doesn’t yet know

what it will be like to have a

Little Sister.

They’ll likely be the

best of friends.

They should have believed her.

She never liked me.

It’s not something I acknowledged

until recently,

mainly because

it never crossed my mind,

the way I seemingly crossed her

every day.

It has been a

Violent Confrontation.

I have learned

Reality isn’t usually defined

until we pry

until we prod

until we peel

until we poke

and ask questions,

and I had never asked.

There were other reasons to explain it, probably.

She was a teenager,

so of course she was going to be

a little snappy,

volatile,

and even a little angry.

Even a little physical.

I was so much younger,

so of course

she was going to get annoyed with me.

I trailed behind her,

wanting her approval,

wanting her to like me.

Wanting her to love me.

Isn’t that what sisters do?

I would copy how she would

laugh with her friends,

mimic her humor,

her cadence.

Anything to flatter her.

Maybe if I was more like her.

I would take interest in

what she was interested in,

whether it be

the extracurriculars she participated in,

the music she listened to

on our too old desktop,

the shows she watched

on cable television.

But nothing worked,

except for my excuses.

Then, I learned.

I adapted, Darwin would be proud.

I would keep my distance.

Move down the hall

when she came down the stairs.

Walk out of the kitchen

when she came for a snack.

Scoot closer to a parent

when she would sit on the couch.

I gained superpowers

of how to sense her shifting mood,

sense when I needed to disappear

sense when her patience grew thin.

I learned quickly

not to take up too much space,

or take up too little.

That I wasn’t that funny,

or that nice to be around.

That I wasn’t enjoyable

or entertaining.

That my just being there

was unsavory

tiresome

even irritating.

I was too loud,

so I was obnoxious.

I was too quiet,

so I was shamed for being shy.

My mere existence was irksome

no matter its size,

I had nothing of worth

to contribute to the room,

and my thoughts,

my opinions,

my feelings were

unimportant.

My efforts to collect the

scattered, shattered

eggshells off the broken linoleum

and the worn, blue carpet

were futile.

I didn’t realize where this came from.

This inner voice that

stalks my every move

my every decision.

I was the youngest.

I was supposed to be

dramatic

at the center of attention

spoiled and attended to

adorable and beloved

This expectation was set

And told to me all the time.

And told to her all the time.

I tried not to listen,

I knew that wasn’t me,

But I don’t think she could help it.

Neither of us got to know

who I was

because neither of us wanted to.

I vaguely remember

my other sisters

occasionally

sticking up for me.

Nothing I distinctly remember,

but enough

that the feelings of love

were believably reciprocated.

“It was just her”

I tell my therapist.

“She and I were never close,

so why dredge it up now?”

Because that is exactly

what it feels like:

dredging.

Scooping out the muck,

the filthy,

sodden garbage.