Confessions of a “Special” Sister

Today I have a heavy heart. Grief has been on my mind. My mom passed away in 2018, just 3 weeks before the Eagles won their first Super Bowl in years. They are playing in the superbowl again today. At the beginning of the game, I received word that my parent’s best friend was going in to hospice. Jack is transitioning right now, somewhere between life and death. I keep him and their family in my mind, sending energy to that space.

I was already raw, attuned to the pain, Little things have been popping up. Last week, a song came on someone’s Pickleball music mix that my Grandfather used to sing to me. I was immediately warped back in time. That same day, very coincidentally, while going through the pile of photos and mementos we all have, a picture of him turned up. It felt like a visit.

I was 9 when he died. He was a boisterous fun guy, juggling, singing, laughing. He left a huge hole in our family. I wished I could go back in time or somehow visit him and ask him every question I have. I was grieving anew, despite the old wound. Grieving the loss of having him while I was growing up in what was already and became such a dark house, a loss my grandmother never got over, and her grief was pervasive. There was no avoiding it.

Last week, I was fidgeting with my watch and Aunt Joanie’s picture showed up, my favorite and only Aunt.

Joanie died 2 years ago, my mother’s only sister.

She was my mom’s only sister and they had a beautiful relationship. It was complicated but the bond was so deep. My mom was a good sister. “The best” my aunt would tell you without hesitation.

Sister is a loaded word for me, very loaded.

When I told my mom at the hospital that frigid January nights six years ago, that it was time to go home, she knew why, what awaited her — she cried out “I want my sister”. A snowstorm and sick husband had kept her away.

“You’re stuck with me,” I said. your least favorite child.

“I’m here” I said, “I’m not going anywhere”

My mom was a wonderful woman. Smart, funny, loving and caring, at heart, and I was lucky to meet that part of her when she was in the throes of dementia towards the end of her life.

I’m able to reflect now that my mom’s actions were always with good intent, and that these actions spoke louder than words,

….but there were many many words, and they were LOADED, to say the least.

A colleague once told me a few years ago that she asks each client to either write or imagine a letter of advice; what might someone have said to your younger self that would hopefully have led to less heartbreak and pain?

That hit home. It was powerful. It accessed a very compartmentalized part of myself. A part of myself that I still find difficult to access. Not just that, I didn’t want to access it, nor did I want to share it. The shame is deep.

Before the deaths of my mom and her sister, I felt I could not really share it the way I needed to. I worried it might hurt them.

So, what would I want someone to have said to me as a chiid? I considered it.

It came to me so quickly, and so powerfully.

“You are NOT a bad sister”

If just one person had said this to me, or had noticed it needed to be said, perhaps it might have been a less painful experience.

Being a “bad” sister has been a source of great shame; I have deeply and somewhat irreparably internalized this message, which I received in subtle and not so subtle ways from my mother. Over and over. And even worse, what I could not say out loud.

I don’t like my disabled sister and I’m supposed to love her.

According to society, I also was supposed to believe I was blessed to have such a special sister.

But I wished my sister did not exist.

As a child, when I spoke out loud to that thought, I was shamed over and over. If it wasn’t for her you wouldn’t exist. You should be grateful.

I was the replacement child, conceived when my sister was five months old and thought to be dying. But she didn’t die. It seems I never really had my own identity to begin with. We are separated by just 17 months.

I understand now that for me to give voice to that feeling scared my mother, because I know deep down, she felt the same way. To her, it was a burden to raise a disabled child. She spoke to this out loud. This feeling conflicted with her deep love of her.

As a younger sister, all through my childhood and even longer, I felt embarrassed. All the time.

When I left for college, I left with no intention of coming back. I cut my sister out like a big mole and ran away, only looking back when duty called.

I have been jealous my entire life of women with sisters. “Normal” sisters. I picture these sisters to have idealized relationships, having fun, giggling and playing with their sisters.They may fight sometimes, but I picture them forming deep, enduring bonds as adults. I know this is not the case with everyone, but in my mind, at least the possibility exists.

It took me a long time to learn what a big impact my sister had on me. My shame finally vanished when I learned about childhood trauma, and in particular something called Complex Developmental Trauma. It turns out neuroscience can show us how the brain can literally be imprinted with chaos. The body too. This explained much of my pain and other complicated health issues, along with the accompanying anxiety and depression so typical to co-occur with them. Science allowed me to see it. To prove it. That helps.

I still see my therapist, I have worked with a great psychiatrist, and I’ve found many healers of all sorts to help my journey. Physical Therapists, Trainers, Doctors, Naturopaths. I am lucky to have health insurance and some means. I have learned to live with this emptiness and sometimes crippling envy. Instead I intend to harness it as an agent of change by helping others. But it can always creep through.

““I want a sister” I concluded sadly during a therapy session, shortly after my Aunt died. As it often does, our discussion had veered into this territory, no doubt coming up during yet another transition in life, the empty nest. Often, I have been feeling very alone. As others who suffer from developmental trauma, this sense of oblivion is a hallmark.That of even being surrounded by friends and family cannot alone mitigate this.

“I know you do,” said my therapist, sympathetically

With my mom and aunt, I witnessed the loss of a sisterhood above all others.

For I do have a sister, and yet I don’t have one. It is a strange combination

I am my sister

My sister is me

To my mom she represented what could have been

I represented what wasn’t.

Motherhood. sisterhood. Daughterhood. The most complex of relationships. To become a mother is to become a sister, in whatever form that takes.

Relationships capable of great pain, or great love, or fun, or community in a way some men can’t seem to understand.

My search for a sister led me to Groundswell Community Project, a non-profit that provides surf therapy for women around the world with trauma. There I have found solace and connection.

Yesterday, right before the Eagles game, my daughter took the bus down to see my sister, her Aunt. She also got a chance to drive around south jersey with Carol Lobel, another very special family friend. My mom would have been so happy to see this.

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