I looked upon the photos on my wall,
seeing them all smiling, and laughing, abundant in joy,
and the truth dawned on me like unwelcome sun,
that these moments,
which before I conceived as mine
as earned
as of me
as mine to own
that all of it was sacrificed,
all hard-won,
and i had not the victory,
all borrowed,
and i had only shared it partly,
all inherited,
and that Paul had none of it,
and that Rudmik had it all,
and this truth smarted like fire,
stubborn to resist my finger-tips,
it was awful to see clearly,
that all these objects i had owned,
the photos,
the chairs,
the screens,
all of it paled in this new dawn,
that all of it was given.
so this love i always had,
but had little known,
eclipsed this pride of mine.
and the tags, which wrapped around
each object in my home,
written with Paul
snapped, and broke loose,
and too did my friendships,
my job,
my relationship,
as none of it was earned,
i did not purchase it myself,
not the job,
as my father's skills had helped me find it,
not my friendships,
as my sister's spirit lead me to them,
not my relationship,
as my mother's wisdom had guided us,
(as had my friend's!)
so none of it was mine
and all of it was ours
and so i have received generously,
now perhaps i am readied to give.
An explanation.
This day, on December 10th, 2021, I had a lengthy conversation with my sister about our responses to the neglectful circumstances we experienced as children in our parents' home. She told me of the painful measures she took, then as a seven-year-old, to protect me, then a three-year-old, from the pain and distress of our neglectful household. Memories re-emerged for me of my sister encouraging me to read, walking me to the park, playing badminton with me; being my friend when otherwise I had nobody else.
Now, I had my share of emotional difficulties as a child; I wished away my boyish emotionality for the stoic demeanour of an adult. And I struggled in my life since that time to re-integrate these shunned fragments of childhood, and become whole and healthy again. In this, I imagined myself as a noble individual protagonist, solely braving the inner world of my demons so that I may return to the world and facilitate the healing of others.
Yet, the story that I had forgotten is that my sister's life as a child was far more dire and distressing: living each day almost intolerably distraught, yet also convinced that expressing her pain would upset our parents and undo any supports for myself. She had lived her life as a sacrifice for me, her younger and beloved brother. And only when her body rebelled against her will, only when the stress so accumulated in her that it disabled her, only then was the table turned and I thrust into the role of the parent.
So this heroic narrative of mine, all of it was underpinned by another heroic sacrifice. And under that, was the sad tale of neglect and tragedy, reaching back three generations at least within my family (and we suspect many more). Each stage of the story flawed, and broken, but nonetheless all of them lead me to this life.
So, I found myself in a haze-like state, standing in front of my wall photos, which captured some of the happiest moments of my life. It was as though I was standing in a museum! All of it was mine, but none of it was mine. Every moment there, I could see clearly, was purchased at the price of my sister's sacrifice for my sake as a child, and perhaps, countless others within my family line. And my life, which before seemed lacking in any real love from my parents or sister, suddenly felt warm and comforted, knowing that I was so beloved that she had sacrificed herself for me. I had never understood the truth of this situation until this moment.
I believe, somewhere here, there lie the keys to the true family & true community I've been desiring for a long time. To know that, truly, deeply, I own nothing, and that we share this all.