Surgery of the Sisterly Relations

I am having quite the day. To be honest todays ragathon started before I even had my glasses or morning “can I make it to the potty without falling on my face”? Nope. i woke up to the sound of my phone going off and discovered my sister thinks I am incompetent and unaware of dates. It seems, because she has remembered my mother’s birthday, that everyone else will forget.

She said it was a courtesy but H does nothing courteously. She’s never done anything nice for anyone without having an ulterior motive, unless this was done sometime in the last two years with my largely pretending she doesn’t exist. H is the sister I wrote about, my older sister. The one that I think is an unfit mother. I haven’t hid from her my disdain for her, nor do I plan to. Obviously, since this is a public post I am hiding nothing as is my purview.

My reply was harsh, however she woke me up and my filters take a good hour to activate. Not an excuse, a fact. I retorted that I remembered and didn’t need reminders and had remembered even when she wasn’t around and didn’t care for all those years she wasn’t around and was busy not caring. I am hoping she understands I meant every word I said today, but it seems that she felt the need to berate me for being ungrateful, at being woken up to be reminded of my mother’s birthday despite daily reminders for the last two weeks and my sister and mother both trying to make my own birthday nightmarish between the two of them.

Her response was I should bite my tongue if I have nothing polite to say. Well there was cursing involved but, again, I had nearly drifted back off thinking that she may get a clue. This would be where I insult all blondes and make a blonde joke except some of my dear friends are blonde and would’ve understood that if you don’t want me to bitch at you don’t keep talking. This has been my method since I was a small child of making sure people know they have screwed up. For someone who knew me for the first thirteen years of my life she seemed to forget I wake up as a malevolent rage bomb. That’s on good days. Something about insomnia makes being woken up very difficult, there’s a pain to it at times and this was such a day.

So, I am expecting her to not talk to me for a few more years. I replied you see. “Because you set such a fine example of courtesy? Leave me be. I do not require your scolding either. Or texts. or Calls.” I felt this was more clear. Yes I did just pick up my phone and copy that down. Somehow being cursed at for not really giving a damn while I am asleep makes no sense to me. Except that my sister has worked hard to have no class.

Some of the things my mother tried to teach us were attempts at good things, and my sister chose to work to be anything but what my mother said, as did I. We have this in common. Except like in the Robert Frost poem we came to a fork in the road. I took the road less travelled and she turned around and walked the other way.

I know this post is harsh, but I cannot tell you how many times I have regretted not telling her what I think. She still believes I am her gullible “retarded sister”. She is the sister that left me to die with my bad reaction to pot, she is the sister that told me I had no writing talent and that she’s the writer despite her writing skills being… what I consider poor. It isn’t about the spelling, mine is fairly rotten anyway, it is about the idea that because she thought she was a good poet, and maybe was when she was young but isn’t now and I have only read her recent work, that no one else could be.

My sister used to lie to me. She would make up facts and if I could prove them wrong would beat me. My sister’s conception of reality is that everyone should just do as she says. It’s very much like our father. I used to accuse my elder brother of walking in his footsteps when he would hit me. They both did. J did his best to stop after a time but H has wedged herself into the role of abuser quite nicely.

So this was how I cut her this morning, my scalpel of sleep deprived rage hopefully was sharp enough. I know my mother will hear of this, but she and I had a nice text talk. I dislocated my jaw again or I would have actually called. She got my jokes, after some explanation which was apparently more amusing anyway. My mother’s birthday sounded good and there are things that are planned which my being sick precludes me from enjoying but the fact is, I have no doubts that the antipathy that has grown in me with my family is beyond my sister’s comprehension

I had to cut her off. Her belief that I am still wanting to be just like her, that I am jealous of her and all her friends is dangerous to my health. You see, when she has the startling revelation that 13 years ago I was a different person and I have since grown up, she may try to force me back into that sort of childish thinking. It fits her whims. I knew then to not back talk her unless I wanted to get hit. I knew then that telling her how pretty she was was good for me.

I don’t think she’s pretty now. I think life has been hard to her and it shows in her face. I don’t want to have her life at all. Somehow fornicating with cousins and reproducing just doesn’t work with my thinking. I don;’t want a string of men that my children each are forced to call daddy. I don’t want to be her. I found myself somewhere along this road of life, and while I am still working on the puzzle pieces I am left to wonder… what if I had never stopped trying to be like her?

The answer is I would’ve died in a gutter.

I love her. I love my mother too. That doesn’t mean they get to take part in my life. That doesn’t mean that I will pretend to be happy to see them. Sometimes I am. My mother is coming to take Sylvani to a vet over the mountain, because the shelter screwed up and that’s how we have to get the situation and the cat fixed. My mom took care of the dangling threads before calling me, which is a bit annoying but also kind of her since she did so after I didn’t call but texted over my jaw. she didn’t want me to hurt myself. This doesn’t make me beholden to my mother

Just like I am not beholden to H for all of the years of her lying to me and telling me that eacht hing that hurt was love. I have never forgotten the moment I realised what real love felt like. M my dear friend is guilty of teaching me what love is. Her lies about love, romance, and men have all left her in what I feared my life would be.

My sister is someone I pity. Her life makes me sad. I fear for her. Ifear for her children. So with a snip, I cut her free and I must go the other way. There is nothing pity does for people but poisons them. If all she does is literally hurt me, figuratively and emotionally hurt me, and expect me to regress into a thirteen year old girl so desperate for a small modicum of love that I risk my life daily… she can go home and be in that terrifying space of poverty that is self imposed.

I would rather she instead let me be an adult, grew up a bit herself, and gave her kids the love they deserve but something tells me she has no idea how to do so. Neither do I, on the kids thing. That’s why I don’t have any.

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