When I was born, we lived in an apartment in Evanston, IL. Both of my parents families were there so it made sense to live there. Before my first sister was born, my parents decided to move out to the country. We lived in that house when my second sister was born.
When I turned five my parents bought a new ranch home not far from where we lived. There was no grass yet but when there was it was a very nice sized yard to play in. The village had a lot of kids to play with, three parks to ride your bike to and the Fox River to swim in, ice skate on or float on with those great big tubs. Mischief? Oh yes. But it was where we grew up.
The village had a bar. It's where my dad spent a lot of his time and where my sisters and I spent a lot of our time. The hard part was when we were left at home alone at night. I would call the bar and ask to speak to my mom. Sometimes my mom would answer the phone and sometimes it would be my dad. If it was mom she said she'd be home soon. If it was my dad he'd say never mind when we're coming home. Either answer meant nobody was coming home no matter how often I asked or how scared we were.
Being the big sister meant I had unfair responsibilities put on me. Because of that it became me against my two sisters. Whenever we fought or argued or had a water fight down the hallway or when I became so angry I poured my cereal on one of their heads or one time when I threw steak knives at them, it was me against them.
What about the physical abuse? It was always on me. Never on them. My job was to protect them from the monster. They were too young. I was old enough to understand. I was the one who had the staring matches with him, who got slammed into the wall by my neck, who got told to get the f$&* out of the house when I ran away, who was driving him home drunk for 14 miles one way, who would have killed him if I had the means.
My sisters had each other. I had no one.
They watched out for each other. I watched out for them, my mom and myself.
They played together. I played with friends.
They went to school together. I made sure they got to where they needed to be.
Today, in 2014, I am still a third wheel. I can feel it. When we're together at a family function they don't even know they're doing it. They have their own way of talking to each other. They don't know I'm sitting there. It's like they're in their own world. I can see it in their eyes, their mannerisms and their behaviors.
My relationship with each of them has improved. I grieve that loss every time we're together. It's like a nail piercing my heart. This little voice says, "You're never going to have with them what they have with each other." And that little voice is right.
And this is what I have to say back to that little voice:
Damn you, Dad!
Damn you, Mom!
Damn you, Alcoholism!
Damn you, Sin!
