it's your birthday (a personal reflection)

It’s been 6 years since you left our family. Today is your birthday. I remember celebrating you growing up. I remember our jokes, spiritual discussions and quiet moments in each other’s presence. I remember our drives, Starbucks runs and Sunday church times.

When I found out about your mental diagnosis, I wasn’t sure how to process it. I felt like I knew you so well yet, I now questioned who the person was that I knew. Deep down, I know that I will always love you as your brother.

How could I forget meeting you for the first time? That innocent smile that sat on your pale white skin and bright blonde hair. Those piercing blue eyes that longed for love. I was so enamored, I took you to my second grade class as my show and tell. I had a felt board and presentation that showed where Russia was and general information about where you were from. I was so proud and excited.

I remember the day you left. Our grandmother was dying of stage 4 cancer, our parents were about to move out of state and I had planned to move to New York City in a few months. I didn’t believe that moment you left would mean forever, at least for now. Forever wondering when I would see you again, when we would embrace and when I’d hear your voice. Eternally wondering why life can be so cruel and how to properly categorize this experience emotionally, spiritually and mentally.

As the years pass, you slowly fade from my memory. I fight to hold on to every detail, believing that I could relive the beautiful life we once shared. It’s hard for me to accept that you’re somewhere in the world, whether this one or the next, and I have no clue what that world is like for you.

My mind goes to dark fears and outcomes. Are you safe? Do you have everything you need? Do you feel alone? I hope you beat the statistics that say you’ll end up worse off than better. I use my clinical skills to rationalize your decisions but my soul overtakes those fears and rationalizations with grief, sorrow and anger.

I’m mad you were born in a place where no one showed you intentional love for over a year. Those cold, bitter Russian winters a symbolic reflection of your experience of caregiving love and protection. I’m mad that this mostly likely caused you to develop sociopathy. I’m mad at my parents for not making a different decision as to medication and treatment options. I’m sad for my mom who poured her entire being into raising you, only to feel like a failed parent. I’m sad that I feel completely helpless in knowing how to even begin to get in touch with you and even if I did get in touch, what I would say. I grieve all the years that your illness was speaking and not you. I have such deep sorrow that I can’t know you now.

I’d show you pictures of my wedding and introduce you to my son. I’d hold you hostage for hours while we caught up and I asked 200 questions, eagerly awaiting each of your responses. I’d hang on every word as if it was the first time hearing you speak.

I’d trade anything besides my family to see you again. Even in your disorder, I’d give you a huge hug while you roll your eyes, then I’d take a step back and really take you in. All of you. Appreciating the person I knew so well yet could never fully know.

It’s been 21 years since Dad passed away. I feel that loosing you was similar yet so different. As time passes you will both always be in my heart. I just wonder, if your heart still beats physically, are you in mine emotionally? I do what I can to accept the circumstances yet, I will never accept this is how it was meant to be.

Today is your birthday and while I can’t get you a card and see you blow out some candles, I celebrate your life. I celebrate the person you are and the person you aren’t. While it feels like a ghostly recollection of a past life once lived, I still believe the spirit of who you are lives on. In a sense, it was never born so it could never die. You’ll always be my sister, the divine feminine companion and familial love worth telling, “Happy Birthday, I love you.”