Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Today I took part of my lunch and sat on the riverfront, reading more Lowenthal. And suddenly, I was struck, personally, with one of his major themes (the major theme?) in The Same Embrace, that of familial (particularly, sibling) bond(s). I have three sisters, all younger than me. I’m closest to my baby sister, born when I was nine-and-a-half. My middle sister is almost six years my junior, and we get along fine. The eldest of the girls (to me, they’ll always be “the girls,” no matter what their calendar ages), Megan, is almost 30. She and I haven’t spoken in over six years. Honestly, it’s been so long that I don’t remember exactly when we stopped speaking – or, more accurately, when she stopped speaking to me. She did remember to send an amazingly, burningly hateful email two days prior to my birthday at the end of 2001; that’s the last contact I had with her. Why we don’t speak isn’t important – well, rather, it is in some fashion, but it’s much more personal than even I’m willing to share here.
But what infuriates me, chokes me with rage and grief, is the fact that I don’t have her in my life. Megan’s, honestly, not a very nice person, I think. I’ve often told others that were I to meet her on the street as a stranger, or at a party, I don’t think we’d be friends, certainly. I don’t like her. I do, however, love her. She’s my sister. That can’t ever be changed. We share similar blood and DNA. We are our parents’ children. And I miss her, I miss being able to share my life with hers, and hear what’s going on with her. I want, desperately, to hate her, but have found I’m not able. I love her in spite of myself, in spite of the damage she’s attempted to do to our family, continually threatening to tear our fabric asunder. She’s filled with bile. But she’s still my fucking sister, and as much as she might like, she can never change that. Even if she attempts to rewrite our family history, I’ll always be lurking in her background. And there are a lot of good memories I have which I hope she shares (though I doubt it anymore). I love Megan, and I so fiercely resent that she’s taken herself from me, driven a wedge between us, set ablaze my olive branches, and excised me from her life and her from mine.
But what infuriates me, chokes me with rage and grief, is the fact that I don’t have her in my life. Megan’s, honestly, not a very nice person, I think. I’ve often told others that were I to meet her on the street as a stranger, or at a party, I don’t think we’d be friends, certainly. I don’t like her. I do, however, love her. She’s my sister. That can’t ever be changed. We share similar blood and DNA. We are our parents’ children. And I miss her, I miss being able to share my life with hers, and hear what’s going on with her. I want, desperately, to hate her, but have found I’m not able. I love her in spite of myself, in spite of the damage she’s attempted to do to our family, continually threatening to tear our fabric asunder. She’s filled with bile. But she’s still my fucking sister, and as much as she might like, she can never change that. Even if she attempts to rewrite our family history, I’ll always be lurking in her background. And there are a lot of good memories I have which I hope she shares (though I doubt it anymore). I love Megan, and I so fiercely resent that she’s taken herself from me, driven a wedge between us, set ablaze my olive branches, and excised me from her life and her from mine.
# posted by Thomas : 1:53 PM
