#personal yapping

I was 11, and for the first time in my life, I had a sister. A stepsister, one who was almost a decade older than me and was never around, but a sister nonetheless.

She was loud. She was confrontational. She wanted nothing to do with me. She once had a screaming match with my mother because she didn’t want to go apple picking. Apple picking.

She was also brave, and outgoing, and she walked into every room like she was daring someone to tell her she didn’t belong. She was a fuck up and she owned it. Landed on her feet just to prove she could, just to spite everyone who told her she would fail. She picked fights and rode four wheelers and stayed out past 2AM, and I remember looking up at her and thinking, holy shit, you are everything I’ve ever wanted to be and can never become.

She wanted nothing to do with me. I wanted to be her. I hated her. I wanted her to move back in but also never come home again. For years, nearly every conversation we had was just awkward enough to be hostile. Our parents so obviously treated me differently than they’d ever treated her, and every tiny thing I got away with drove another wedge between my sister and the rest of us.

But also.

Also, she picked me up from school once and took me out for frozen yogurt, just the two of us.

Also, I got really overwhelmed the day we moved into our new house, and she took me to see Incredibles 2 in theaters so I could have a break from all the packing.

Also, once, we were at a family member’s funeral—a family member from my mom’s side, who my sister didn’t even really know—and my mom stood up to give the eulogy and I was sobbing, and without a single word my sister reached out, tugged me into her side, and let me cry on her shoulder. And I stayed there getting snot on her nice dress even after my mom sat back down. I stayed there the whole service, and she never gave me shit for it. Didn’t even bring it up, not once.

Also, when I was in high school, she came home in the middle of the night with a new tattoo. And she told me our parents didn’t know yet, just me. And she smiled at me like it was our little secret. And I felt so nice.

I’m not saying it was perfect. It wasn’t even good, most of the time. I’m just saying that in between the distance and the passive aggression and the snark, there were movie nights and hugs and little moments I treasured like fucking gold. I’m just saying that she was always my sister. The word felt weird, at first, but nowadays it comes to me as easy as breathing. Even though I can’t remember the last time I called her that to her face.

And sometimes I just see a panel of Jason and Dick, acting the way you act with a person you love so fiercely even though they feel like a stranger. And I think about last Christmas, when my sister and I both came home to visit, and she hugged me. She hesitated for a second, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to hug me, but she still did it. It wasn’t easy, but it was still nice.