Personal
A product of generations of twins, one of the most sacred descriptions in my family, my cousins, Jessica and Stephanie, requested parts of their story written. But, as I reminded them, this story is about my relationship with them. Their stories remain theirs, this blog does not strive to assume or write someone else’s thoughts, feelings, and actions.
A story of twins can only be written twice: once for one, twice for the other. You will find two posts about the infamous twins. This one about Stephanie, the next about Jessica. However, like all twins, their stories start as one. You’ll notice their posts have identical beginnings, much like their own. The words underneath those initial paragraphs begin their solo stories. Throughout these solo stories, I identify my favorite trait about my cousins.
Their stories don’t separate until Stephanie left, arriving in this world twenty minutes ahead. Until that moment, I view them as one. As if they were one thread, forged by their creator, whoever that may be, then slowly pulled apart. The first time, by Stephanie. Always connected by the fact that their very being is the same, that foundational makeup identical, but their thread began division nearly thirty-one years ago, making them free to roam, run, or remain.
I’ve had the pleasure of watching that unraveling, the tug apart my whole life. Often a product of disagreement, they move away from each other, unraveling the thread quickly, mindlessly, messily. However, sometimes, I have the privilege of watching them work together, a gentle tug on each side. With a mutual respect for the other’s lives, decisions, careers, partners, and ideas, they walk parallel, forging their own path yet remaining together– their strongest forms.
Stephanie was nine when I was born, and I don’t remember her until she was fifteen, learning how to drive. I was always asked growing up which half of the pair I preferred: Jessica or Stephanie. Candidly, I don’t think I could really tell them apart until they were in college. They looked different, acted differently, and spoke differently, but I was too young and saw them too infrequently to determine which was which. I definitely couldn’t tell them apart enough to prefer one over the other. The power of hindsight aids me again in this next statement: Stephanie was always easier on me.
Stephanie is one of those people who is very aware of everyone else’s pain. She was always aware of how different I was when we were growing up. I think she knew how lost I was. I think she knew how hard I was trying. I think she knew how hurt I was. She never pushed me. She never necessarily defended me– she didn’t know how, but every time I looked up, she was there. Alongside my own shadow, she stood behind me, including and validating me. I question if she knew how impactful that was. She never pushed me into something that made me uncomfortable. She never asked me why. She never even voiced if she knew, but she was there.
I think Steph’s greatest strength is her ability to pick up on and understand pain. She’s drawn to the helpless, the hurting, and the heartbroken. Time and time again I’ve watched her push her feelings aside, her life aside, herself aside, to help the person everyone else overlooked. That characteristic is my favorite about her: it saved me several times during my annual summers in Ohio. However, it’s also the characteristic I think will kill her eventually.
This strength, in my opinion, is also her greatest weakness. The line between heroic and cowardly sacrifice is a vast gray zone. Steph has a damn near built a house right in the middle. Every sacrifice she’s made in the past decade can be defended on either side: stupid or selfless. Personally, I’ve always seen both sides. I know exactly why she makes every decision she does: she’s driven to help others. However, my heart can’t help but break a bit when she gives herself over as the remedy.
The burden she carries, of feeling everyone else’s pain as her own, is one I don’t envy, but fear I possess myself. It’s a burden that takes years to control, hone, and understand. I fear she will never put herself first. I fear she’ll never get back the pieces of herself she gave away. I fear myself succumbing to a similar fate. Maybe that’s why I stay so attached to her. In watching her, I discover my own fate.
Fate– potentially the biggest and baddest villain of them all, rendering you powerless, stripping away autonomy, laughing, villainously, at choice. Perhaps every time I avoid defending her, I’m actually advocating for myself, who I will become, I mean. My future, perhaps her current, is written by her behaviors, our scattered phone calls, and my perception of her. Her own mistakes become my “how to” book, a gift I’ve never thanked her for. So in these final syllables, thank you Steph, for everything then, everything now, and everything in the future.
Steph and I: so fundamentally different, yet so intrinsically similar.