Growing up, my image of myself in relation to my sister was that I was the tough one. She always kept her feelings close to the surface. She was quicker to cry, more open to expressing herself. More concerned about pleasing my parents. I was a lot more closed off. My mom used to say that when Janet was a toddler, she could ask her not to touch something and Janny would see Mom's disapproving look and burst into tears. When I came along, Mom could tell me not to touch something and I'd look right in her eyes as I defiantly touched it again.
As we grew up, she was the one who was reluctant to leave home. She went to college in our hometown, and only lived in the dorm because my parents insisted. Me? Two days before my 18th birthday I boarded a plane for a college located 1300 miles away. Now, she still lives in our hometown, about 10 minutes from my Dad. I'm 14 hours away.
I have translated these kinds of stories into a myth that I was the stronger of the two of us.
I have spent most of my adult life realizing this is not the case. My sister is tough and strong and practical and positive and so capable. And I am, as my blogging moniker states, clinging by my fingernails most days.
While I don't enjoy the way life regularly reminds me that I don't have my act together, I do appreciate the admiration I feel for my sister. Realigning my understanding of her and of myself, of how and who we are as people, has been kind of an emotional journey. A really rewarding one.
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