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[jillmiz]

Home, (Bitter)Sweet, Home...

When I got divorced eight years ago, I made the decision to be the one who would move out of our home.

Not typical, right?

No, and I got a lot of hell for it from many people – friends and family – who disagreed vehemently with my decision. But I didn’t care what anyone thought or said. My life, my decision…

And I must add that I’m a huge believer in making choices and living with the circumstances.

There were very specific reasons why I wanted my ex to have the house: he put his blood, sweat and tears into practically rebuilding that house (more than once) and we were able to buy that house mainly because of him. He wanted a large piece of property, which we had, and he cared for that house better than I ever had. I was always an unruly mess since, well… birth. My ex worked like a dog, though, making this house his home and a place that we all could love. Through seven-day work weeks and broken clavicles, wrists and punctured lungs, he built decks, walls, and painted. Our house was his project of love. Aside from that very essential fact, there were other reasons why I chose to be the one who moved and I still stand by them.

Anyway…

It was a task for me to “pack” my belongings, or whatever it was that I wanted. There were two lifetimes’ worth of memories and belongings packed into that home – the one where I was still a child living with my parents and then my sister, and the other which was after I joined my life with a man with whom I had children. What do you bring and what do you leave? Everything had meaning.

 We had no list of items in our divorce agreement we each wanted to claim; it was a basic written agreement that we both decided wouldn’t (mostly) apply. There would be no “every other weekend” crap, or holiday schedule. To me, my ex was and always will be the father of my children and as such, he was certainly not going to have to abide by some legal document stating when he could be with his kids. I refused to be “that” woman who hired expensive lawyers so we could go into debt fighting over possessions and money. My ex is a stand-up man and there was no way I was going to make things harder than they had to be. Divorcing someone I spent half my life with was hard enough. We signed our divorce papers and went out to dinner and spent some final happy moments as husband and wife.

 Oddly, my ex and my dad-in-law both helped me move into my first home rental. Packing for me was basically throwing random things into boxes and bags – kitchen stuff, some towels and sheets, clothing. It was a surreal experience having the person I’d been with for what seemed like forever moving me out of his life with the help from his dad. And it’s not like they were celebrating the demise of a partnership; they were (and are) just good human beings.

 Living alone for the first time in my life (well, aside for my kids who would be mostly living with me because we decided I would be the custodial parent) was bizarre. I wasn’t really sad but also curious how I’d feel being in a home without my parents or my spouse. It was all me. I had to pay the rent and utilities and whatever else. I landed a job as a legal assistant, something I had little experience in, but my starting salary was pretty decent and with my child support, all was good. I had to learn to hang Christmas lights on the gutters for the first time, set mice traps and (sadly) empty them; pay more attention to my spending habits and make my kids feel like this was a home away from regular-home. It wasn’t easy.

 When my landlord decided he was selling the house, I was in the middle of some major health issues and work issues. I had to leave asap and it was only a little over a year after I had moved in. I found something quickly and rallied some good-hearted people to help me move this time. I felt so bad for my kids though. Adjusting to a divorce and their mom moving out and then moving again not too long after seemed like a lot to expect from them.  

 The new place had its perks: it was nicer, closer to town and around the block from my sister. I was still going through a hell of a time personally, work-wise and health-wise, though, but I never really had the poor-me, victim mentality so I licked whatever wounds I had, stiffened my spine a bit and tried to make this new life we were living the best life I could.  

Unfortunately, my landlord turned out to be a less-than-stellar human being and the other tenants in the two-family house were verbally abusive and, quite honestly, miserable, selfish, obnoxious human beings. My kids witnessed a horrible excuse for a man verbally assault me. So now I had real estate agents hounding me when they wanted to do an open house when I wasn’t available and expecting me to be home during typical work hours to show the apartment. (Side note: I am currently a real estate agent and I would NEVER behave the way this “power couple” in the industry behaved.)

 After dealing with a disgusting, lying, money-hungry landlord and co-tenants who had made living there quite difficult, I decided I needed more stability. I could no longer be a “renter” – I had to be an “owner.”  I felt like I was failing my two, amazingly adjusted children by not having a proper, stable living environment.

 So the very long, difficult journey began. I needed to purchase a home where we could live and they could live without worrying about moving once again.  Thankfully, my ex and I raised two very adaptable kids who went with the flow. Of course, the divorce affected them, but overall, they were rock stars.

I knew it was because they always had a home with their dad and never had to feel displaced. My younger kid sort of thought of moving as an adventure, while my oldest was silently agreeable. He had witnessed the other tenants bawling me out when it was their behavior that sparked the discord to begin with. I will never forget the moment that I sat down on the floor of my then-bedroom and cried because I was just so tired. My son was, and still is, uncomfortable with people crying, but I was just beside myself and at that particular, selfish moment, it was too bad. I was pushing forward with every ounce of mental, physical and emotional energy I had, but I just couldn’t take another life-altering change. He sat down next to me as I cried and put his fifteen-year old arm around my shoulders but didn’t say a word. His silence equated with understanding.

My daughter was little and didn’t quite understand my exhaustion. She told me to take a nap if I was so tired. My son calmly told her that it wasn’t the same kind of sleepy-tired I was talking about. He got it and I was grateful for his suddenly-mature comfort even though it was selfish of me.

 After one mortgage snafu with one house, that I winded up losing, I found another that I felt was homey and cozy. I jumped with cautious enthusiasm through many hoops to get this house and the day I closed, five years ago today, I pulled up to my new home and started to bawl. I was overwhelmed; happy; scared; excited. This was our new home! She needed some TLC for sure and she became my work in progress.

I tried desperately to change my ways when it came to organization. I failed and continue to fail. I still have piles of stuff on the dining room table and can’t seem to “remember” to put things away. Laundry baskets remain overflowing; dishes, too. I am still an unruly mess, but I accepted that it’s part of who I am and always was. I am a dedicated mother and hard worker and that always trumps my inability to maintain a tidy home.

 But I worked on making things a little nicer: I tore off really old wallpaper and painted; I skim-coated my kitchen by myself and fixed some settlement cracks in the plaster; I got some high-hats in the living room; got a new doorbell – small things. I presented my daughter with  a light aqua bedroom I painted on a work night until 1 or 2 am, ordered new carpet and furniture for her new room that I wish I’d had. My son had the attic bedroom, which I’ve gotten him two or three different beds for him over the years, a desk I put together, a memory-foam mattress and a great dresser (even though it was used, but it still proves to be the best Craigslist purchase I’ve made to date). I started doing the unheard of – shopping at Goodwill for work clothing so that I could buy my kids the nice, cooler stuff.

I had to get new appliances, have my huge brick patio-on-patio steps demolished and replace it with standard steps, I’ve dug out bushes, learned to use a weed-whacker, mow my own tiny lawn (with a garage sale purchased lawn mower, of course) trimmed hedges, took out a sink and installed a small vanity, and lastly,  installed a floating-vinyl floor by myself.  There are many other things I’ve done to my old, 1927-built girl. Amazing how garage sales and a little you-tubing can educate someone about saving money and learning new skills.

 I have tried desperately and fervently to create a home for my kids. I have moved eight times in the span of 29 years – certainly not a lot in comparison to many - but the last several were solely based on making my children feel safe and secure in the world of divorce and by far, the most important moves of all. I thought I was successful, but, alas, I’ve not been. Not in my eyes, at least.

 I have continued to try to update my home with new paint and I’ve been getting rid of useless things and old mementos that no longer serve any purpose except to be sad reminders of old lives.

 But now my “work in progress” is no longer for my kids’ sake, sadly, but only to hopefully pass her along to another loving owner who will work as diligently as I have in to give her a bit of a facelift.  When I first got my beloved little house, I cried and cried. I was so happy and proud of this great moment in my life but I knew deep down that it wasn’t going to be my final home.  I had a flurry of emotions because I knew that as happy that I was,  life would continue happening and finances wouldn’t always be consistent. In my mind, I was on the five-year plan.

And now, it’s been five years.

My children are old enough to make certain decisions and God only knows, I will never EVER hold that against them. They are simply more comfortable in their “childhood” home and they’re living the life as 21-year-olds and almost-17-year-olds should be living.  I know there is no competition about who’s the best parent or who they love more, but a subconscious desire to be where its most familiar and comfortable. Neither child wants to make me sad or hurt my feelings and I will never be angry at them for it; I understand completely because I love them.

 But the financial and physical demands of owning a home have exhausted me and I sadly have to say goodbye to my old girl. Once again, I have to pack up my life, tossing pieces of the tangible past into black garbage bags and leave them on the curb. I will have to find an affordable place to unpack my life once again, with less actual unpacking to do than I have done each time prior. I will have to find a place, although a two or three bedroom won’t be possible anymore. I will have to find some inner strength to accept the fact that my custodial parent-hood is no longer a factor, even if the divorce decree states otherwise. My Merokian presence of nearly 49 years will dissipate into another past life of many.  I don’t know where I will wind up and I don’t know how I am going to survive, but I suppose I will find a way as I’ve always managed to do.

 Another chapter of my life has concluded, and the next chapter remains a blank page.

 Happy five year and final year anniversary to my little Orchard Street home.

[jillmiz]

Home, (Bitter) Sweet, Home...

When I got divorced eight years ago, I made the decision to be the one who would move out of our home.

Not typical, right?

No, and I got a lot of hell for it from many people – friends and family – who disagreed vehemently with my decision. But I didn’t care what anyone thought or said. My life, my decision…

And I must add that I’m a huge believe in making choices and living with the circumstances.

There were very specific reasons why I wanted my ex to have the house: he put his blood, sweat and tears into practically rebuilding that house (more than once) and we were able to buy that house mainly because of him. He wanted a large piece of property, which we had, and he cared for that house better than I ever had. I was always an unruly mess since, well… birth. My ex worked like a dog, though, making this house his home and a place that we all could love. Through seven-day work weeks and broken clavicles, wrists and punctured lungs, he built decks, walls, and painted. Our house was his project of love. Aside from that very essential fact, there were other reasons why I chose to be the one who moved and I still stand by them.

Anyway…

It was a task for me to “pack” my belongings, or whatever it was that I wanted. There were two lifetimes’ worth of memories and belongings packed into that home – the one where I was still a child living with my parents and then my sister, and the other which was after I joined my life with a man with whom I had children. What do you bring and what do you leave? Everything had meaning. 

We had no list of items in our divorce agreement we each wanted to claim; it was a basic written agreement that we both decided wouldn’t (mostly) apply. There would be no “every other weekend” crap, or holiday schedule. To me, my ex was and always will be the father of my children and as such, he was certainly not going to have to abide by some legal document stating when he could be with his kids. I refused to be “that” woman who hired expensive lawyers so we could go into debt fighting over possessions and money. My ex is a stand-up man and there was no way I was going to make things harder than they had to be. Divorcing someone I spent half my life with was hard enough. We signed our divorce papers and went out to dinner and spent some final happy moments as husband and wife. 

Oddly, my ex and my dad-in-law both helped me move into my first home rental. Packing for me was basically throwing random things into boxes and bags – kitchen stuff, some towels and sheets, clothing. It was a surreal experience having the person I’d been with for what seemed like forever moving me out of his life with the help from his dad. And it’s not like they were celebrating the demise of a partnership; they were (and are) just good human beings. 

Living alone for the first time in my life (well, aside for my kids who would be mostly living with me because we decided I would be the custodial parent) was bizarre. I wasn’t really sad but also curious how I’d feel being in a home without my parents or my spouse. It was all me. I had to pay the rent and utilities and whatever else. I landed a job as a legal assistant, something I had little experience in, but my starting salary was pretty decent and with my child support, all was good. I had to learn to hang Christmas lights on the gutters for the first time, set mice traps and (sadly) empty them; pay more attention to my spending habits and make my kids feel like this was a home away from regular-home. It wasn’t easy. 

When my landlord decided he was selling the house, I was in the middle of some major health issues and work issues. I had to leave asap and it was only a little over a year after I had moved in. I found something quickly and rallied some good-hearted people to help me move this time. I felt so bad for my kids though. Adjusting to a divorce and their mom moving out and then moving again not too long after seemed like a lot to expect from them.   

The new place had its perks: it was nicer, closer to town and around the block from my sister. I was still going through a hell of a time personally, work-wise and health-wise, though, but I never really had the poor-me, victim mentality so I licked whatever wounds I had, stiffened my spine a bit and tried to make this new life we were living the best life I could.  

Unfortunately, my landlord turned out to be a less-than-stellar human being and the other tenants in the two-family house were verbally abusive and, quite honestly, miserable, selfish, obnoxious human beings. My kids witnessed a horrible excuse for a man verbally assault me. So now I had real estate agents hounding me when they wanted to do an open house when I wasn’t available and expecting me to be home during typical work hours to show the apartment. (Side note: I am currently a real estate agent and I would NEVER behave the way this “power couple” in the industry behaved.) 

After dealing with a disgusting, lying, money-hungry landlord and co-tenants who had made living there quite difficult, I decided I needed more stability. I could no longer be a “renter” – I had to be an “owner.”  I felt like I was failing my two, amazingly adjusted children by not having a proper, stable living environment. 

So the very long, difficult journey began. I needed to purchase a home where we could live and they could live without worrying about moving once again.  Thankfully, my ex and I raised two very adaptable kids who went with the flow. Of course, the divorce affected them, but overall, they were rock stars.

I knew it was because they always had a home with their dad and never had to feel displaced. My younger kid sort of thought of moving as an adventure, while my oldest was silently agreeable. He had witnessed the other tenants bawling me out when it was their behavior that sparked the discord to begin with. I will never forget the moment that I sat down on the floor of my then-bedroom and cried because I was just so tired. My son was, and still is, uncomfortable with people crying, but I was just beside myself and at that particular, selfish moment, it was too bad. I was pushing forward with every ounce of mental, physical and emotional energy I had, but I just couldn’t take another life-altering change. He sat down next to me as I cried and put his fifteen-year old arm around my shoulders but didn’t say a word. His silence equated with understanding.

My daughter was little and didn’t quite understand my exhaustion. She told me to take a nap if I was so tired. My son calmly told her that it wasn’t the same kind of sleepy-tired I was talking about. He got it and I was grateful for his suddenly-mature comfort even though it was selfish of me. 

After one mortgage snafu with one house, that I winded up losing, I found another that I felt was homey and cozy. I jumped with cautious enthusiasm through many hoops to get this house and the day I closed, five years ago today, I pulled up to my new home and started to bawl. I was overwhelmed; happy; scared; excited. This was our new home! She needed some TLC for sure and she became my work in progress.

I tried desperately to change my ways when it came to organization. I failed and continue to fail. I still have piles of stuff on the dining room table and can’t seem to “remember” to put things away. Laundry baskets remain overflowing; dishes, too. I am still an unruly mess, but I accepted that it’s part of who I am and always was. I am a dedicated mother and hard worker and that always trumps my inability to maintain a tidy home.  

But I worked on making things a little nicer: I tore off really old wallpaper and painted; I skim-coated my kitchen by myself and fixed some settlement cracks in the plaster; I got some high-hats in the living room; got a new doorbell – small things. I presented my daughter with  a light aqua bedroom I painted on a work night until 1 or 2 am, ordered new carpet and furniture for her new room that I wish I’d had. My son had the attic bedroom, which I’ve gotten him two or three different beds for him over the years, a desk I put together, a memory-foam mattress and a great dresser (even though it was used, but it still proves to be the best Craigslist purchase I’ve made to date). I started doing the unheard of – shopping at Goodwill for work clothing so that I could buy my kids the nice, cooler stuff.

I had to get new appliances, have my huge brick patio-on-patio steps demolished and replace it with standard steps, I’ve dug out bushes, learned to use a weed-whacker, mow my own tiny lawn (with a garage sale purchased lawn mower, of course) trimmed hedges, took out a sink and installed a small vanity, and lastly,  installed a floating-vinyl floor by myself.  There are many other things I’ve done to my old, 1927-built girl. Amazing how garage sales and a little you-tubing can educate someone about saving money and learning new skills. 

I have tried desperately and fervently to create a home for my kids. I have moved eight times in the span of 29 years – certainly not a lot in comparison to many - but the last several were solely based on making my children feel safe and secure in the world of divorce and by far, the most important moves of all. I thought I was successful, but, alas, I’ve not been. Not in my eyes, at least. 

I have continued to try to update my home with new paint and I’ve been getting rid of useless things and old mementos that no longer serve any purpose except to be sad reminders of old lives. 

But now my “work in progress” is no longer for my kids’ sake, sadly, but only to hopefully pass her along to another loving owner who will work as diligently as I have in to give her a bit of a facelift.  When I first got my beloved little house, I cried and cried. I was so happy and proud of this great moment in my life but I knew deep down that it wasn’t going to be my final home.  I had a flurry of emotions because I knew that as happy that I was,  life would continue happening and finances wouldn’t always be consistent. In my mind, I was on the five-year plan.

And now, it’s been five years.

My children are old enough to make certain decisions and God only knows, I will never EVER hold that against them. They are simply more comfortable in their “childhood” home and they’re living the life as 21-year-olds and almost-17-year-olds should be living.  I know there is no competition about who’s the best parent or who they love more, but a subconscious desire to be where its most familiar and comfortable. Neither child wants to make me sad or hurt my feelings and I will never be angry at them for it; I understand completely because I love them. 

But the financial and physical demands of owning a home have exhausted me and I sadly have to say goodbye to my old girl. Once again, I have to pack up my life, tossing pieces of the tangible past into black garbage bags and leave them on the curb. I will have to find an affordable place to unpack my life once again, with less actual unpacking to do than I have done each time prior. I will have to find a place, although a two or three bedroom won’t be possible anymore. I will have to find some inner strength to accept the fact that my custodial parent-hood is no longer a factor, even if the divorce decree states otherwise. My Merokian presence of nearly 49 years will dissipate into another past life of many.  I don’t know where I will wind up and I don’t know how I am going to survive, but I suppose I will find a way as I’ve always managed to do. 

Another chapter of my life has concluded, and the next chapter remains a blank page. 

Happy five year, and final, anniversary to my little Orchard Street home.

[jillmiz]

Please check out my first new blog. It’s lengthy but it will resonate with many...

Sisters...

I’m not sure how much I believe the psychological reasons regarding family birth order. While  there are certainly families where each child has qualities or personalities that fit into the “order” (the firstborn being likened to a surrogate parent to the siblings who follow, the middle child being the peacemaker, the youngest having more lenient rules) there are also many families where the birth order has absolutely no bearing on our personalities, our “roles” or how we view and behave in the world.

 Like my family, for instance.

 I am the “baby” of the three - all girls. The “middle” is a few months shy of being three years older than me, and the firstborn is eight years my senior. 

 And here we go…

The firstborn, has never been anywhere near a surrogate parent to me or the middle. She has never been a role model, a leader, or even a friend. Her disdain for me began probably the day my mom became pregnant and it never really ceased.  A bully; entitled; possessive of her parents. Her ally in the family, when she decided she needed one, was the middle and her favoritism toward her was hurtful. I struggled to convince her to like me, but she refused. I would plop myself onto a kitchen chair when her cool friends were around, hoping to be included in some way. She would tolerate my presence for short periods of time and I accepted that stingy bit of tolerance as if it were an admission of “like,” which it really wasn’t, as much as I willed it to be.  But it was the closest thing to her acceptance of me, even if it was simply because her friends thought I was cute. 

There wasn’t a room in the house she didn’t try to take command of. If one of us had the favorite spot on our parents’ bed, she would take it. If we were watching t.v., she took over the cable box. (For anyone who reads this who was born in the nineties, Google “cable box.” You’ll be appalled at what we had back in the day.) She was the first to use the shower, the one who grabbed our hair when she passed us in the hallway to try to “catch” us using her shampoo. When I bought my own shampoo as a teen, suddenly I was the selfish one. The list unravels. Petty things to most, maybe, but the build-up of all-things-small eventually becomes all-things-large.  I must give her this, at least: she was nice to me twice. Twice. Once, when she caught me sneaking out of the house, she didn’t “tell” on me, and the second time was when I was upset that my friends ditched me. She offered to bring me to Beefsteak Charlie’s (although I would have to pay for myself). So, recalculating, it was actually one and a half times.

I was a sensitive, thoughtful, over-thinker as a child; a chubby, cute kid who loved to read and write, eat frozen Ring-Dings, but also (as the middle tells me now) a bit weird. My bedroom was my favorite, sloppy mess of a place to be (and that sloppy mess that I was then has carried through into my adulthood – it’s part of my charm, I like to say). Thankfully, it was the middle with whom I had a relationship. While never perfect, because she and the other would gang-up on me at times, we did have fun. We played jacks on the kitchen floor, causing the eldest to scream at us for making noise; we played dolls, school, library and whatever else kids did back in the seventies. We shared a room, and our clothes – even though we fought over our favorite jeans or sweatpants more often than not. We shared friends as teens, too.

Moving on, the middle wasn’t quite the peacemaker; she was indifferent to the war of the baby and the firstborn. She was the toughest one, emotionally, but the smallest one, physically. She wanted me to let things roll off my back as she did, but it wasn’t who I was. We called her the “cold bitch of the family” but, as I found out later, she wasn’t, and isn’t currently, quite as cold as we half-joked. Her strength has always been her ability to never allow an overload of emotional or tense situations to make her crumble. Middle’s stature was small, and her spine was made of steel; nobody could knock her down. 

I was always the crier and too sensitive to just allow things to happen but not let them bother me.  As the baby, I didn’t try to take my parents’ attention from the oldest; I wanted her attention – the good, loving kind that sisters were supposed to give each other. It was because I was sensitive- at least I think so now- that it was necessary for my mother to give me the attention; it was because I was a little worrisome to her rather than simply being because I was the youngest. 

It was when my father died that the firstborn decided to take the lead.Or try to, anyway. I was nineteen at the time and resentful of her sudden stab at trying to round us up to be a family. She had never been anyone I looked up to or got support from, so who was she to think she could now become that “surrogate parent?” Dark times didn’t bring us together; it only made things worse. Our family became unhinged and we all parted ways to live our separate lives. I was still that sensitive kid, but the circumstances that changed all of our lives forced me to lose that a bit and toughen my skin. I was on my own and had to be an adult sooner than I’d wanted. I was forced into it and I didn’t need, or want, anyone – especially her – to lead my journey. My mother moved to Florida, the middle and I stayed here in New York and the firstborn lived in Queens. Separation became my surrogate parent since it was that which taught me survival.

The only thing that bound us together as any kind of “unit” was blood and the fact that we all suffered through my father’s murder. Bound as we were through a horrific experience, we’d never been more separate. States divided us, personal struggles plagued us and the art of learning how to be adults loomed over us. We were undoubtedly victims of our circumstances and the more I realized that we were, I knew that I would not allow myself to be a perpetual victim of anything.

It was years later when after many fainting episodes, doctors, and tests, the firstborn learned she had brain cancer. She was just shy of 40 years old and had a new, frightening and rough road to steer herself through. 

I don’t know if I ever said this out loud, but for a long time I was ashamed of myself for my internal reaction to the news of her cancer. I will never forget calling her when I found out, still trying to be a supportive sibling even though she had basically shunned me my entire life. It was April and I was standing in my yard, phone to my ear, listening to her tell me she was going to be okay. The tears I was supposed to shed naturally would not come. I felt like she was a stranger to me, and her terrible news didn’t have the profound effect on me that it should have.  It was almost as if I had struck up a conversation with some random person at the store or in an elevator who revealed to me that they were ill, and I nodded sadly as I offered an  “I’m so sorry” before we parted ways. Finally, I did cry a few tears but maybe more so because of how my non-reaction chilled me.

It was as if I had taken on the indifference of the middle and had also been crowned the new “cold bitch of the family.” I knew in my heart that even if I was seemingly indifferent, I truly wasn’t a cold bitch. A sisterly relationship had never existed though, and that’s how I eventually learned to accept that my reaction was not completely wrong or completely my fault. It has always haunted me, though, because it felt so wrong and cold. Where was the sensitive crier I had always been? Guilt weighed on me but I couldn’t change how I felt.

The middle and I had been married through this period, had kids and subsequently we both got divorced, so our own lives continued to be our own kind of tricky, especially since our mother was entrenched in a new storm in the firstborn’s care. But navigate through, we did.

Thankfully, she beat the cancer and is currently healthy 16 years later. She has some issues because of radiation and chemo, but in the end, she won a terrible battle, one for which I have always  admired her courage and bravery. And I’ve even told her that because I felt she needed to know, although why, I am not so sure.  

Every family battles through their own worst storms and my family has been through some fierce ones. I think those are the times and circumstances when we develop and grow the most as adults. We begin to reevaluate and learn to be who we are now from where  and who we used to be.

I will always be the baby of the family but I never felt that I fit into the “birth order” role. The “baby” learned from struggles, improved through mistakes, embraced her sensitivity and compassion instead of feeling ashamed of it. I no longer resent how my sister treated me; I moved past it.  Wallowing in self pity or struggle never proves helpful to anyone - I’ve learned that. 

For all the roles we play in our families, we are not bound to them forever, no matter our birth order.  I have become somewhat the unofficially appointed leader of my family, or “surrogate parent,” to some degree.  Mind you, I still have some growing to do, and God willing, I will live long enough to do so.  I have lived my life separately from the firstborn for most of my life, but still, there have been some recent issues between us that brought with them a torrential downpour of whatever emotion is right below the cusp of hatred. The middle and I have established our own relationship over the years -and now over long distance - but we know where we stand. We grew together and have become allies. My individual growth has not been stunted, nor reliant, upon either of them though. I no longer feel the need to be accepted or liked by my oldest sister and it makes it that much easier for me to let it all go. It makes it easier for me to help her if I can rather than harbor the weight of any emotional damage she caused. 

If my experiences haven’t enlightened me, or helped me to understand who I am, then I haven’t used them for their purposes.  Luckily, I’ve become enlightened to many things.

One of them being that everything has a purpose.

[jillmiz]

Sisters...

I’m not sure how much I believe the psychological reasons regarding family birth order. While  there are certainly families where each child has qualities or personalities that fit into the “order” (the firstborn being likened to a surrogate parent to the siblings who follow, the middle child being the peacemaker, the youngest having more lenient rules) there are also many families where the birth order has absolutely no bearing on our personalities, our “roles” or how we view and behave in the world.

 Like my family, for instance.

 I am the “baby” of the three - all girls. The “middle” is a few months shy of being three years older than me, and the firstborn is eight years my senior. 

 And here we go...

The firstborn, has never been anywhere near a surrogate parent to me or the middle. She has never been a role model, a leader, or even a friend. Her disdain for me began probably the day my mom became pregnant and it never really ceased.  A bully; entitled; possessive of her parents. Her ally in the family, when she decided she needed one, was the middle and her favoritism toward her was hurtful. I struggled to convince her to like me, but she refused. I would plop myself onto a kitchen chair when her cool friends were around, hoping to be included in some way. She would tolerate my presence for short periods of time and I accepted that stingy bit of tolerance as if it were an admission of “like,” which it really wasn’t, as much as I willed it to be.  But it was the closest thing to her acceptance of me, even if it was simply because her friends thought I was cute. 

There wasn’t a room in the house she didn’t try to take command of. If one of us had the favorite spot on our parents’ bed, she would take it. If we were watching t.v., she took over the cable box. (For anyone who reads this who was born in the nineties, Google “cable box.” You’ll be appalled at what we had back in the day.) She was the first to use the shower, the one who grabbed our hair when she passed us in the hallway to try to “catch” us using her shampoo. When I bought my own shampoo as a teen, suddenly I was the selfish one. The list unravels. Petty things to most, maybe, but the build-up of all-things-small eventually becomes all-things-large.  I must give her this, at least: she was nice to me twice. Twice. Once, when she caught me sneaking out of the house, she didn’t “tell” on me, and the second time was when I was upset that my friends ditched me. She offered to bring me to Beefsteak Charlie’s (although I would have to pay for myself). So, recalculating, it was actually one and a half times.

I was a sensitive, thoughtful, over-thinker as a child; a chubby, cute kid who loved to read and write, eat frozen Ring-Dings, but also (as the middle tells me now) a bit weird. My bedroom was my favorite, sloppy mess of a place to be (and that sloppy mess that I was then has carried through into my adulthood – it’s part of my charm, I like to say). Thankfully, it was the middle with whom I had a relationship. While never perfect, because she and the other would gang-up on me at times, we did have fun. We played jacks on the kitchen floor, causing the eldest to scream at us for making noise; we played dolls, school, library and whatever else kids did back in the seventies. We shared a room, and our clothes – even though we fought over our favorite jeans or sweatpants more often than not. We shared friends as teens, too.

Moving on, the middle wasn’t quite the peacemaker; she was indifferent to the war of the baby and the firstborn. She was the toughest one, emotionally, but the smallest one, physically. She wanted me to let things roll off my back as she did, but it wasn’t who I was. We called her the “cold bitch of the family” but, as I found out later, she wasn’t, and isn’t currently, quite as cold as we half-joked. Her strength has always been her ability to never allow an overload of emotional or tense situations to make her crumble. Middle’s stature was small, and her spine was made of steel; nobody could knock her down. 

I was always the crier and too sensitive to just allow things to happen but not let them bother me.  As the baby, I didn’t try to take my parents’ attention from the oldest; I wanted her attention – the good, loving kind that sisters were supposed to give each other. It was because I was sensitive- at least I think so now- that it was necessary for my mother to give me the attention; it was because I was a little worrisome to her rather than simply being because I was the youngest. 

It was when my father died that the firstborn decided to take the lead.Or try to, anyway. I was nineteen at the time and resentful of her sudden stab at trying to round us up to be a family. She had never been anyone I looked up to or got support from, so who was she to think she could now become that “surrogate parent?” Dark times didn’t bring us together; it only made things worse. Our family became unhinged and we all parted ways to live our separate lives. I was still that sensitive kid, but the circumstances that changed all of our lives forced me to lose that a bit and toughen my skin. I was on my own and had to be an adult sooner than I’d wanted. I was forced into it and I didn’t need, or want, anyone – especially her – to lead my journey. My mother moved to Florida, the middle and I stayed here in New York and the firstborn lived in Queens. Separation became my surrogate parent since it was that which taught me survival.

The only thing that bound us together as any kind of “unit” was blood and the fact that we all suffered through my father’s murder. Bound as we were through a horrific experience, we’d never been more separate. States divided us, personal struggles plagued us and the art of learning how to be adults loomed over us. We were undoubtedly victims of our circumstances and the more I realized that we were, I knew that I would not allow myself to be a perpetual victim of anything.

It was years later when after many fainting episodes, doctors, and tests, the firstborn learned she had brain cancer. She was just shy of 40 years old and had a new, frightening and rough road to steer herself through. 

I don’t know if I ever said this out loud, but for a long time I was ashamed of myself for my internal reaction to the news of her cancer. I will never forget calling her when I found out, still trying to be a supportive sibling even though she had basically shunned me my entire life. It was April and I was standing in my yard, phone to my ear, listening to her tell me she was going to be okay. The tears I was supposed to shed naturally would not come. I felt like she was a stranger to me, and her terrible news didn’t have the profound effect on me that it should have.  It was almost as if I had struck up a conversation with some random person at the store or in an elevator who revealed to me that they were ill, and I nodded sadly as I offered an  “I’m so sorry” before we parted ways. Finally, I did cry a few tears but maybe more so because of how my non-reaction chilled me.

It was as if I had taken on the indifference of the middle and had also been crowned the new “cold bitch of the family.” I knew in my heart that even if I was seemingly indifferent, I truly wasn’t a cold bitch. A sisterly relationship had never existed though, and that’s how I eventually learned to accept that my reaction was not completely wrong or completely my fault. It has always haunted me, though, because it felt so wrong and cold. Where was the sensitive crier I had always been? Guilt weighed on me but I couldn’t change how I felt.

The middle and I had been married through this period, had kids and subsequently we both got divorced, so our own lives continued to be our own kind of tricky, especially since our mother was entrenched in a new storm in the firstborn’s care. But navigate through, we did.

Thankfully, she beat the cancer and is currently healthy 16 years later. She has some issues because of radiation and chemo, but in the end, she won a terrible battle, one for which I have always  admired her courage and bravery. And I’ve even told her that because I felt she needed to know, although why, I am not so sure.  

Every family battles through their own worst storms and my family has been through some fierce ones. I think those are the times and circumstances when we develop and grow the most as adults. We begin to reevaluate and learn to be who we are now from where  and who we used to be.

I will always be the baby of the family but I never felt that I fit into the “birth order” role. The “baby” learned from struggles, improved through mistakes, embraced her sensitivity and compassion instead of feeling ashamed of it. I no longer resent how my sister treated me; I moved past it.  Wallowing in self pity or struggle never proves helpful to anyone - I’ve learned that. 

For all the roles we play in our families, we are not bound to them forever, no matter our birth order.  I have become somewhat the unofficially appointed leader of my family, or “surrogate parent,” to some degree.  Mind you, I still have some growing to do, and God willing, I will live long enough to do so.  I have lived my life separately from the firstborn for most of my life, but still, there have been some recent issues between us that brought with them a torrential downpour of whatever emotion is right below the cusp of hatred. The middle and I have established our own relationship over the years -and now over long distance - but we know where we stand. We grew together and have become allies. My individual growth has not been stunted, nor reliant, upon either of them though. I no longer feel the need to be accepted or liked by my oldest sister and it makes it that much easier for me to let it all go. It makes it easier for me to help her if I can rather than harbor the weight of any emotional damage she caused. 

If my experiences haven’t enlightened me, or helped me to understand who I am, then I haven’t used them for their purposes.  Luckily, I’ve become enlightened to many things.

One of them being that everything has a purpose.