Rejection and Abuse Doesn’t Equal Sisterly Love

     The NaBloPoMo writing prompts for yesterday and today asked me if there was a toy I broke as a child and if there was someone who ever refused to play with me. The only person who I remember refusing to play with me or have anything to do with me at all was my big sister.  I think it had a lot to do with the huge 7 year age gap between us.  She was too old and entirely too cool in her opinion to be bothered by the likes of me.  

      I remember her coloring in color books with me on rare occasions but hardly anything else.  It was always “Get out of my room you little slop hog!!” or “Go away!!” with her bedroom door being slammed in my face.  She could be right down mean.  Fortunately for me she wasn’t around much, and when she was I tried to steer clear of her.  I always had the impression she hated my guts and over the years I realized the feeling was mutual.

         I can only recall ever breaking one toy while growing up.  It is a very vivid memory and once again it involved my sister.  We have never got along and I don’t remember why I was so mad at her or what she had done to me, but I do remember her sitting on the floor in the hallway talking on the phone.  In those days, if she was home and not behind her closed door she was on the phone.  I can remember the rage that possessed me.  Armed with a pint size toy broom I ran out into the hallway and broke that toy broom over her head.  I then remember turning tail and running hell bent for election back to my own room and slamming my door.  I remember crying, not for being sorry for hitting my sister but for breaking my toy broom.  Did she deserve it?  Well, knowing my sister, probably.  Never fear, she managed to get even with me many times over the years.

          I have always felt bad that my sister and I could never get along.  Unfortunately she has always hated me and resented my very existence.  After my parents were gone I found I didn’t have to take her crap anymore.  I always did it for their sake.  With their deaths I was freed of my responsibility to her.  People who are close to their siblings and who come from families less dysfunctional may never understand how I could live my life without her in it knowing she is out there somewhere.  Like a married couple who no longer get along, the deaths of my parents effectively divorced me from her. 

       It makes me sad, but it is not something I dwell on anymore.  I can only hope the life she has chosen for herself has made her happy.  At least she doesn’t have to be tormented by looking at me and vice versa.  Unfortunately she is a person who finds misery wherever she goes.  I choose to find happiness wherever I can.  I no longer have to suffer her constant wrath.  I no longer have to suffer her abuse.  I choose to not let her make me miserable.  She can not help the person she is.  To move on with my life,  I had to let it go and realize I can never make her like me.  Life goes on.   I am free to enjoy my life, enjoy my family, and be happy until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.