sibs

This post is hard to publish. I've written some pretty personal things, but this is different, there's intense fear of rejection, of telling someone they matter way more than they should, and it's scary beyond words.

 I should start at the beginning.

I have a little sister. 

I have a fuzzy memory of being woken up, a phone, and someone telling me I had a little sister. I remember being very unimpressed. It pretty much set the tone for the rest of my childhood. I was barely three at the time, so I think that’s got to be one of my first memories.

We weren't close growing up.  She was constantly stealing my stuff, and getting away with things that I got in trouble for.  She did sports, I did theatre. We grew up.  Our kids brought us back together. I will be forever thankful for the birth of her eldest. Before she got married, we got tattoos.  We have similar vines and I smile whenever I catch a glimpse of hers. 

She’s truthful, honest, and always there.  We’re close.  I know I can call her whenever, and she’ll listen.  She may not understand, or agree, but she’ll listen. We can laugh together, and complain about, well, anything.

I love her and count on her more than I can express.

I have a big sister.

She wasn't born into my family.  I don’t even remember meeting her.  (There’s a chunk of high school that’s pretty blurry.)  We became friends and just clicked.  We laughed together, made less than responsible decisions together, and were comfortable together.  She speaks Kristin.

There were about ten years that life pulled us in different directions and we hardly spoke.  Currently, our paths have aligned a bit more.  We’re both busy in our own worlds, but when we make time to talk, it’s as if no time has passed at all.

She’s truthful, honest and always there. I know she’ll come, regardless of the time of day or distance between us. She listens and cuts to the heart of what’s wrong.

I love her and count on her more than I can express.

That part was easy.

and now the scary.

I fell apart.

Too many little stresses added up to a completely overwhelmed and emotional mess.  All the feelings were jumbled together and I couldn't sort them out at all. I was barely maintaining the fragile exterior of a functioning human being.

He was there. He wasn't supposed to be.  He asked how I was, and I shattered into a mess of rainbow colored bits of Kristin. He stepped in, silently, and let me cry, protected from the world.  I cried.  I forgot to breathe.  He just let me cry it out. He let me be the broken little girl for a few moments.

By the time he left, I was a functioning human being again.  He had managed to glue all my pieces back together, a temporary fix, until I could figure it out.

I hate that I fell apart.

I hate that I needed someone to glue me back together enough to finish the day.

I don’t know why he was there.

He wasn't supposed to be. I waited until he wouldn't be.

I was supposed to fall apart alone, and figure it out alone.  

I spent the next few days trying to sort it all out.  Both the original stresses that led to the emotional mess and the new added mess of why he even cares enough to want to be there, to want to make it better.

We’re comfortable. He speaks Kristin.  He tells me when I’m wrong, and I don’t ever remember trying to impress him. He’s honest. I’m honest.  He’s spent the last year beating self-worth into me.  He’s invested time and energy into me and I don’t understand why.

People notice, and neither of us care, because it’s not like that.

truly. not. like. that. 

He’s… there, just waiting to help when I ask, or laugh, or listen.  He teases me and I smile. (Although, the picture from the bar, sent to me while I was in the middle of a super tedious meeting? That was just mean. made me smile, but still. mean. )

I find myself trusting him, counting on him to be there.

Trusting a "he"? hard. scary. heart-breakingly so.

I’m waiting for the day he walks away. Because he will.

It’s going to hurt when he isn't there to put out a hand when I’m a crumpled heap in the corner.

I’m going to miss him when he’s not standing silently in the back.

I don’t need him, but I certainly take comfort in knowing he’s there to laugh at me or lend me a shoulder to lean on.

Then it hit me.

It’s the same.

He’s seen me at my worst, he’s seen me at my best.

He’s proud of me, and I know it.

Just like my sisters.

Does that make him my brother?  My younger-than-me, supportive, snarky big brother?

Because that would certainly explain a lot.