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Anniversaries.
May. 17th, 2006 10:10 pmI told some friends at work today that it was the second anniversary of working at my job.
And, that's true.
Today is also the eleventh anniversary of the worst day of my life. Eleven years ago today, my brother had just been killed in a car accident, and my father was near death himself. But that one is kind of a downer! So, I didn't bring that part up.
It's strange that I am posting about this, because I wasn't planning on it. I have created some sort of online dedication for the past six years, but I gave myself permission last year to stop. I make a real effort to be able to speak of it at all now, and I still don't, if I can help it. You would never know it by reading my journal but I'm a pretty private person, really. I became.. hard, after the wreck, like glass--hard, but oh so breakable. I had just turned sixteen, and the most important thing to me right then was making sure I didn't break, because someone had to be there for my mom and my sister-in-law, right? Eventually, when the crisis was over, my mom thought that I just didn't care that much because I never said so, but how can you go back? How can you share feelings that you never learned to talk about to begin with?
So I didn't say anything, and with every day that went by, it became harder to say all those things that needed saying.
But what do you say when someone asks you if you have any brothers or sisters? This is, hands down, my least favorite question in the entire world. I cringe on the inside every single time. I am forced to become like that person who lists every single problem in their life when asked "How are you?" by a stranger, because yes is not right, and neither is no. And when I tell the truth, they never know what to say, and there is an awkward silence, and I am not skilled enough at small talk to be able to smooth over the moment. I can tell them it's okay and try to make them feel better... but we both know I'm lying.
What do you say if they ask if you're an only child? How can you say yes, but how can you say no? There is no one I can call to talk about my parents, no one who can reminisce with me about growing up in my family. That's a technical answer, but I could never answer that way. That's a denial of the fact that I had a brother that I still love dearly. And yet, either way--it's just not the answer that people want to hear, because it's not something I can lie about.
What do you say when you are sitting in a group of people who are complaining about how horrible their siblings are? How they hate them, how they are so irritating that they don't want to have any contact with them any longer? How can you do anything but sit quietly and hope the conversation doesn't turn to you, especially when you're sitting there thinking about the way you cried and hugged him fiercely the day your grandmother died, and the look in his eyes when he saw his daughter when she was born, and all you really want to say is, "don't bitch about your mortgage in a homeless shelter, okay?"
So, writing about it that first time--being able to agonize over every word but forcing them out even though it hurt--it was liberating, and exhausting, and eventually it was even healing.
But it never goes away.
And, that's true.
Today is also the eleventh anniversary of the worst day of my life. Eleven years ago today, my brother had just been killed in a car accident, and my father was near death himself. But that one is kind of a downer! So, I didn't bring that part up.
It's strange that I am posting about this, because I wasn't planning on it. I have created some sort of online dedication for the past six years, but I gave myself permission last year to stop. I make a real effort to be able to speak of it at all now, and I still don't, if I can help it. You would never know it by reading my journal but I'm a pretty private person, really. I became.. hard, after the wreck, like glass--hard, but oh so breakable. I had just turned sixteen, and the most important thing to me right then was making sure I didn't break, because someone had to be there for my mom and my sister-in-law, right? Eventually, when the crisis was over, my mom thought that I just didn't care that much because I never said so, but how can you go back? How can you share feelings that you never learned to talk about to begin with?
So I didn't say anything, and with every day that went by, it became harder to say all those things that needed saying.
But what do you say when someone asks you if you have any brothers or sisters? This is, hands down, my least favorite question in the entire world. I cringe on the inside every single time. I am forced to become like that person who lists every single problem in their life when asked "How are you?" by a stranger, because yes is not right, and neither is no. And when I tell the truth, they never know what to say, and there is an awkward silence, and I am not skilled enough at small talk to be able to smooth over the moment. I can tell them it's okay and try to make them feel better... but we both know I'm lying.
What do you say if they ask if you're an only child? How can you say yes, but how can you say no? There is no one I can call to talk about my parents, no one who can reminisce with me about growing up in my family. That's a technical answer, but I could never answer that way. That's a denial of the fact that I had a brother that I still love dearly. And yet, either way--it's just not the answer that people want to hear, because it's not something I can lie about.
What do you say when you are sitting in a group of people who are complaining about how horrible their siblings are? How they hate them, how they are so irritating that they don't want to have any contact with them any longer? How can you do anything but sit quietly and hope the conversation doesn't turn to you, especially when you're sitting there thinking about the way you cried and hugged him fiercely the day your grandmother died, and the look in his eyes when he saw his daughter when she was born, and all you really want to say is, "don't bitch about your mortgage in a homeless shelter, okay?"
So, writing about it that first time--being able to agonize over every word but forcing them out even though it hurt--it was liberating, and exhausting, and eventually it was even healing.
But it never goes away.
