Pensées

My parents often remarked on my silence as an infant. Rarely crying or talking, I was a watcher. I don't remember much of my infancy, for who ever does? Watching videos of myself or looking at photos of myself as a babe, I often am startled by how tiny and small and stern I am. Indeed, I viewed the world in severity and thoughtfulness. Why was I this infant with big brown eyes? It is strange to recount a tale of a past I do not remember, but I think much of my childhood - whether intentionally or unintentionally - was shaped by my brother's death. As any life changes the lives of those near, so does any death change and shape the lives affected by it. Though I was only an infant and did not retain memory, the reality of my situation was real: my brother who loved me was gone, my parents heartbroken, my sisters confused. Grief affects even those who do not understand it. My first lesson of life was learned: Death happens.

As a child, I was a shy and quiet girl in the face of anything unusual and often fell into a nervous habit (lovingly dubbed by my family as the Kangaroo poise) of pulling my arms inward toward myself with my wrist out and down. More than not, I'd hide behind my mother's skirts, hoping the stranger would just go away or not take notice of me. A face would turn its two eyes on me, and I'd cringe, wondering if they would eat me. A mouth would open, and a question would come out. I'd look down, too petrified to look at their face, and murmur out a quiet answer. My twin usually came to the rescue at this point. "Look! A belly-button!" he'd exclaim as he pulled up his shirt and pointed a chubby finger at his middle. "Do you have a belly-button?" Embarrassed at my brother's antics but relieved the attention toward me was diverted, I would message him with my eyes "Knock it off!", but his telepathy was never good and the signal would be lost in the "oooooh"s and "aaaaawwww"s of adoring parents around him. There he was, standing upon his fan group, happily showing the world what he was capable of, and I stood back, watching no body notice me, and was content.

I grew more and more bold in the passing years with those I was familiar with. With my family, I was loud, rumbustious, daring, and, sometimes, rebellious. My mom and I were never close when I was young, I regret to say. She loved me, did the very best for me that she could, but I would often lash out, and throw what she laid before me back into her face. My anger was never directly toward her, but usually aimed at myself and my own stupidity, but due to my own immaturity, I took it out upon her. Often everything was learned through a struggle of wills. Math classes took hours and by the end of them, I was usually in tears. I couldn't grasp what she could see so clearly so I would argue, convinced my way and logic was right. An hour would pass and by the time I actually understood what she said, I had dug myself too far down and my stubborn will refused to give in. No, I *must* be right. But aside from school, my mom was a comforter and solace whenever anything in life bite me, and I would fly to the arms of my mother who was the strongest woman I could have ever imagined.

I can never remember being the stereotype of Daddy's little girl, but, by definition, I was. I remember only a little of my father as a child, for I only saw him in the evenings after a long day of work. I'd hear the door slam, feet stomp, and, running down the hall, would jump into the arms of my dad. He'd laugh, toss me into the air. He always smelled funny when he first came home from the hospital - later in life, I identified it as iodine and rubbing alcohol - and I'd crinkle my nose and comment on how weird he smelled. He was always there, ready to hear my sorrows, disciplining me, and calming the storms between Mom and myself. I trusted him to make life better, and he usually did.

My oldest sister I worshiped and she was my confidant and friend. My second oldest sister and I when we got along were chums; when we didn't, we were sworn enemies. Neither of my sisters I remember much of when I was very young, for they were in a private school until I was four and took classes together during homeschooling days. We all shared a room, and my relationship with my sisters remained consistent until my teenage years.

My twin and I were glued together in life; he was the brains, I was the power. Homeschooled together in everything, he was quicker at grasping concepts and understanding ideas. I resented it. Why did he have to be younger and brighter? We would race each other; it was always a contest: who was better? He just loved life; I hated it. I had to be the best. Neck and neck, we would try to pass each other in school. He was the best at math concepts, science applications, languages, and geography. If I ever pulled out on top in those subjects, it was only because I actually did the homework even though I didn't understand a wit of what I was answering. Spelling, English, and history (with the exception of the 20th century) were the only subject I could have a real chance of beating him in. Spelling was my favorite. Not spelling aloud, no! I would have died. Speaking aloud was the worst; my mouth never obeyed my brain. But if my mom read a word, I would write it down and she'd check the spelling. I had to see the word. English was just something I enjoyed; Matt didn't as much. History... the stories, the books, the timelines. I hated the geography. I could never beat Matt and eventually, I just gave up on it. To this day, I'm an ignorant as a hedgehog when it comes to geography. Timelines, on the other hand, were right up my alley. I pulled hours and hours into making a perfect timeline. Dates are another thing I'm awful at. I can't remember half the dates I put on my timeline. It was the organizing, the scheduling, and connecting one dot with another. I hated the fact he could just understand everything, his carefree nature in life. I didn't hate it because I disliked it; I hated it because I wished I could do it. But my twin was the best thing I could have asked for. We sharpened each each other, we raced each other, we played together, we discovered along each side of another, but we never fought. He did my thinking, I did his homework, but all within the rules. He was the funny one, I was the serious one. He, calm; I, melodramatic. We made a perfect balance even if I did almost tear his head off at times.

My youngest brother and I's relationship was very similar to that of my second oldest sister and I's relationship. We often played with Twin, but whenever we were left to ourselves, we took to fighting. We were both stubborn and opinionated, convinced that no matter what, our own personal thought was correct and MUST be enforced.

Unlike my relationship with my family and immediate friends (which basically count as family) where I demonstrated very little fear, the academic or public setting was strikingly opposite. I went a quiet a mouse, spoken when spoken to, watching instead of being watched, and waiting to see how the people around me would perceive me. With time and familiarity, I would learn to speak up and step out. I was not antisocial in the least, but rather wished to blend in and stand out simultaneously without daring attention to myself. My teachers thought "polite, respectful, and intelligent"; my acquaintances labeled me as "a good girl, smart, and pretty". My close friends still thought me "talkative and sometimes controlling", but we had the best of times together.

During my early teen years each atmosphere grew more and more normal and I became more and more outspoken and snappish. Sigh. I try not to remember the years between twelve and fifteen. I hide my face in shame when I think of my actions. Oh how much I regret from those years. I grew into an angry, frustrated individual. Shamed of myself, I continued in my same behavior and, in despaired, wished to rid the earth of the miserable creature that I was. But that's another story to be told in other places.

As I grow older, I find myself sinking more and more into silence. This silence is not one of absence of words, but rather a lack of will....and I don't know how to end this but since I bothered to write so much, I might as well post it. Somehow words just don't come out the way I think them in my mind. Happy readings.