I read an article a long time ago, about a daughter of a cop who died in 9/11. After all the turmoil, her family was invited to attend the World Series, likely equal parts publicity stunt and attempt to honor her dead father. The daughter, aged about 12 or 13, recounted how she reacted angrily against a fellow classmate when, with the tact of a rampaging hippo, he had the gall to suggest that she was “lucky.”
How he thought going to the World Series because her father had been killed in a terrorist attack amounted anything to do with her “luck,” I will not understand.
But I did have a similar experience.
Since I got the amazingly gorgeous Stuart, the Sister has been very enthusiastic in attempts to drive him (attempts that scare the beejezus out of me since she has a deathly tendency to destroy cars that she doesn’t own.) During one of these drives (to McDonald’s), she recounted my life for me: recently employed and with a ballin’ ass car and the money to go with it all.
I laughed and agreed that my life was pretty good. Then, she told me, in all seriousness,
“I’m gonna smack you if you come into my room at three a.m. crying again.”
…
See, I’ve had some pretty crappy experiences before. One was particularly shittier than the others and, when I get too emotional or when there’s a flashback I can’t stop, it gets a little too overwhelming so I turn to the nearest form of comfort I can reach for: the girl in the next room.
So yeah, there are times when the phases come in batches and I find myself coming into her room more often than I normally do. And every time, she wears the same expression of exasperation like,
“OMG get out you’re annoying.”
I get that she isn’t my shrink. But she’s my sister, so the thought of crying to her always seems like a better idea than crying in a fetal position in my bed.
Or so I figured.
I get that it’s an “inconvenience” to her (God forbid she has to pause the latest episode of Jersey Shore), but is it really that big a deal? Is it that awful to hug and listen to me for a few minutes, for a night or maybe two every now and then when a dark thought or two runs through my head?
See, I have to wonder if it’s so difficult to be a semi-compassionate person (my sister has the sensitivity of a rhino’s hide) for her to compare a(n admittedly beautiful) car like Stuart to the things that make me catatonic in the night.
It’s like giving a man a gold brick and saying, “Look, it’s a gold brick! You now don’t have the right to be sad that you lost your leg!”
There is no equivocation.
And to suggest or otherwise assert that getting a new car somehow lessens my loss is just beyond insensitivity. It’s mean; Very, very rude and inconsiderately mean.
She says “put things in perspective,” but she really means “put things in my perspective where problems are solved and forgotten if you possess the right material objects.”
Would I give up my job and car to undo just that one crappy experience? In half a heartbeat.
Contrary to her belief, it doesn’t make me ungrateful. Having a regret doesn’t mean that I spit on the life I currently have; it simply means that I wished I’d turn down a different road to get to this same point.
Fact is, I can find a job in my profession elsewhere. I can get a (less beautiful and awesome) car in the future if not now.
Sure, I understand that my loss will never come back, that the experience is something I can never undo or forget and that my life now is nothing to turn your nose up at. But while I’m dealing with it and gradually healing from it, is it so bad to want my sister to be there for me? What I lost, what I cry for at 3 am isn’t something I can re-find, let alone buy at a dealership.
I just want to lay my head down, be petted, and told that it’ll be okay.
It’s about as complicated as wondering if Snooki’s drunk right at this moment, but a lot less deteriorating to your brain cells.
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