I lost Dianne when I was 11 years old. It was 1988.7.5. I wouldn’t turn 12 until December. I was probably in sixth grade. I liked boys, music, early Democrat, pro choice, liked to sing, and wanted to be like Dianne. The earrings, the style, the smart, the whitty, and very largely unknown to me. I don’t remember a lot of my childhood. I remember me wanting to run away from home for the first time. At six years old. That was it. I was hitting the road in my (likely either kmart or Payless shoes, shoes. I packed up everything that mattered. (Stuffed animals and Barbies, probably a few my little ponies.) I walked to the front door to our home. The only home I’d ever known to that point in my young life. I stood there, contemplating my decision in all of my “angry, rebellious” nature at six fucking years old.

I stood there, head down. I don’t know what Tim and Brian were doing, but Dianne was doing dishes at the time. Almost directly parallel from where I was standing in that moment. My head was down, and in my thoughts, suddenly I saw a future with these people.  They are okay. But before I hit the grass isn’t greener after all, I cried. Loudly. My sister came to to me, her fabulous high school self and asked me what I was doing. As I cried, I replied “I’m running away.”

Here’s the thing. In hindsight, it’s HILARIOUS. At the time, I was trying to figure out where I fit in. Everyone was so much older than me. I didn’t fit in. I always felt weird. Either I was overweight or wanting to dump the  family religion but couldn’t. You know? I wanted to be gone from that church. I just never felt it fit where I could be. I wasn’t comfortable with people. I loved my family. I really did. I also loved people from the side that were unbelievers. I saw more commonality with them. They felt more… Real.  My education was important. I had a learning disorder from the time I began having seizures. Fever induced fevers. (Febrile)

Everything felt harder, as a kid. So much wasn’t in my control. I was given Christmas gifts sometimes that didn’t match anything remotely to what I liked or tagged in the Sears catalogue. I even dog earred some of the pages and put a marker arrow or circle around what I wanted. I knew there was a possibility I’d get a few things I wanted. I just feel like my mom blew a bunch of money on my teenage years that completely missed the mark.

I wish I had the origin story of: my Mom gave me my first keyboard. And the moment my hands touched the keys, it was like I knew instructive what to do, the scales, the way to arrange the notes, and without any issue. It wasn’t like that. My mom didn’t know me. I’m not sure she could at that time. I don’t remember what Christmas it was. It just wasn’t anywhere I’d go with it.

The story I just told oh, poor you not taking an unexpected opportunity to learn a new skill! It was just what I felt.  I wished people were paying attention to me. Again, I don’t remember my childhood very well at all. I’m not trying to sound like I’m just acting like things didn’t happen and they did. The diagnosis of c-ptsd involves not remembering core memories.  And it sucks. I want to fill in the blanks. I want to make it make sense.

Why I want my sister back. Firstly, I wish miss than anything that she could’ve gotten to know her daughter and her daughters wife. It’s amazing. I don’t know them well at all. Part of my social avoidance because I’m afraid everyone will see me as people at church in my childhood and teen years treated me, including some family members.

Dianne didn’t exactly subscribe to the church that we grew up in either. She left for a time and came back. Part of me wonders if she was trying to figure out what was right for her. And since she perceived herself as making terrible decisions, coming to church brought a measured amount of happiness. It meant, connection. Connection that you could lose if you left again. (Not culty… Not at all)

The unspoken rules are the rules. Follow them.

Dianne would be able to teach me Spanish. She taught me a little bit the day my mom almost drowned at the Presque Isle pool while our mother was being treated at Marquette General Hospital.

My sister liked weird shit. Some of it, was amazing. And she was pretty and had her own apartment. She was different. And I admired her. In many ways, I’m very like Dianne, I guess. Failed marriage, kids young, got over her head, and cardiac history. I would have liked to ask her things. So many things. Talk about woman hood. The changes, watch the movie of “Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy”. I would love to ask her if she liked the movie or book version of Marvin the Martian better. I’d like to ask her about her life. Regrets, friends or friendships. I’d let her do my hair or makeup, probably. Listen to Duran Duran. Though, she would never drive my car. Ever. She was a horrible driver. I do remember that.

I would’ve asked her why the hell she put on the movies …. National lampoons class reunion, Monty Python and the holy Grail, and some other really mad movies for a young child to try to digest.  nuance and sarcasm. 

What did her different feel? How did she feel about herself? What did she like about me. I’m sure there had to have been something.

I would love to hug her, hear her laugh, and see her smile. I’d love to make fun of things with her. To sit down for coffee.

I didn’t get siblings, really. My brother Brian has tried with me and continues to. I’m learning to have a relationship with their daughter, Nora. I’d like to tell Dianne about my experiences in love and loss. To force her to watch a few episodes of “The Gilmore Girls”.

Brian was weird and Tim, well, I had feelings.

I was emotionally robbed for my entire childhood. And I was robbed again and again. And I put myself in my own cave of solitude with my dogs and my husband. I go to work when I have to

Afraid of being too much or not enough every moment of every day. I interpret situations wrong, likely. I don’t know if I’m even okay. If I even know what I’m doing.

From a young kid, I got fascinated by handwriting analysis, crimes, psychology, spirituality, nature, and justice. I have books I’ve never read about handwriting analysis. I tried to go to school for a while for a criminal justice program at NWTC. I’ve maintained a car payment, a job, a home. I’m trying. Even if I feel the ache of that solitude the meets the absolute terror of leaving said cave for people to see who I was/still am. I know it happened over 30 years ago. 100% get that. The feedback loop is insane and it’s not letting up. Different people can think the same. And it would happen to me

Cuz bad shit happens to me.

It impacts harder.

Especially after a while.

It burns until your brain. Until you believe you have no future. If I could just talk to…. Mom,

If I could just talk to… Dianne

If I could just…

Nevermind. I have to do this on my own

I’m not going to apologize for being emotional. It’s what I was trained to be. I’m trying to work my way out. Eric gave me a back rub/massage and I felt uncomfortable the whole time. I do not feel important. I’m just here, taking up space. I space I hope I’m not screwing up, not historically people have said I was, so it must be true now.

Dianne could have helped me navigate life. She was or would be 11 years older than me. Why couldn’t I feel love from anyone. To most people, I was an annoyance. I was keeping people from something. Bothering someone, maybe being worthwhile sometimes. I just always felt short.

My bucket is not well cared for. (I did manage to go to a few appointments today, talked to Ashleigh, and get chores done) Eric and I are going to Upper Michigan tomorrow Menominee Mi, Marinette, Wi. Border towns. There are cool things to do there. We’re staying overnight in a hotel and I’m hoping they have an indoor pool. And our lovely neighbor is going to check in on them.

I’m still in therapy doing Brainspotting. It’s still going well. Making progress. It’s very slow when you’re isolated. And it’s something I’ve done to protect myself from future pain. But it’s causing me pain. I know. It’s bat shit.  I’m trying. In