I'm not sure about writing this post. It's a story without a real beginning, middle or end because there is so much that is fuzzy - when I dig to try to clarify details my chest gets tight and my stomach clenches and my mind spins - it literally feels like it spins and I can't focus on anything let alone what I am trying to search for answers for.
And for me clarity is important, it's safe. Black and white is safe. I like academics. It's safe. Even within the flexible boundaries of exploring personal beliefs or philosophies there are boundaries.
This story has no boundaries. It is fuzzy around the edges. There are gaps. My fear is of being wrong - in any detail. Being wrong is my fear in life. I try hard to not make mistakes - of course I do - but I am crippled inside with shame when I make even small mistakes. My outside mask hides the inner turmoil.
I am trying to avoid starting the story, because I am not sure when it starts. Some facts.
I am forty years old.
I am the second child of three in my family, the only girl. I have a twin brother who was born first - somehow it was always important in my family that he was the oldest. I have a younger brother - 5 years younger. There is also a half brother whom I barely know - I knew nothing about him until I was told he existed when I was 18.
Growing up we spent a lot of time playing with our cousins on my mothers side - at their houses and at my grandparent's house. Oddly I have few clear memories of them at my house. I don't know if they didn't come around often, or if that is another gap in my memories. My oldest cousin B was 4 years older than me and he died when I was 12. I feel anger and guilt towards him. Anger and blame towards him for starting this, and guilt because I blame someone who died so young. Because his death was always viewed as the great tragedy in the family. He was the eldest grandchild, bright and loved by all.
Next eldest was his sister, T, two years older than me. Then there was me, my twin brother and a different cousin R. R was the eldest boy in his family too. I think it was a great source of pride that the boys were born first. It was a very patriarchal family - at least according to my uncles. I don't think my Dad cared about that. Two years younger than me is A, R's little sister.
I guess that means I was 71/2 when B died.
That's so little.
No comments:
Post a Comment