Sisters

My sister. My older half-sister, more specifically. This could be a doozy, folks.

When my bmom had me, she was married and had two children (ages 5 and 6). They both shared a father that was not my father. I grew up believing that I had two older sisters (turned out, one was a brother – mistake in the paper work – so I will only refer to my actual sister in this post) and I longed for my siblings. I longed for my sister. My big sister.

There was – and IS – a primal connection that my sister and I share. It has always been there. From the moment that we met (the day I first saw my bmom, face to face) it was instant. We didn’t know each other…but, boy…we KNEW each other. I can’t explain the connection, but it’s one that some sisters share. The ability to communicate without words. The same mannerisms. A connection that made it comfortable enough to immediately sit beside/on top of one another and speak out whatever came into our minds. We were alike on so many levels. We are both sensitive, compassionate, non-judgmental, sarcastic, funny and we are both incredibly stubborn. I love H with all of my heart and soul…in a way that I have never loved anyone else.

Reunion was rough on us. We needed each other and we both carried some very heavy burdens that we placed on each other’s plates. We had both grown up in very different worlds. And, unfortunately, she assumed that my life was a piece of cake. Perhaps it seemed that way…but let me assure you that being adopted had colored my entire childhood, teenage years and to this day, is the most significant issue that I deal with – every day. Thank goodness that it doesn’t necessarily carry the same dark weight that it may have years ago…but it is still there and always will be.

So, yes, reunion was rough. Here we were…sisters…yet, we didn’t know each other. Our relationship was a roller coaster. We would spend years, months, and weeks together, in relationship and then it would dissolve and we would not speak for years, months and weeks. It was dreadful. Here we were…sisters, yet the connection we were supposed to share was ripped apart the day my bmom delivered me. We fought. We cried. We hurt. And then, after years, she slammed the door shut over something that was totally inaccurate and untrue (she accused me of something that never happened) and kinda absurd.

And here I am today, still feeling like I lost part of my heart when she said – what seemed to be – her final goodbye. I feel like a part of me is missing…and I know she holds that part. My heart will never be completely whole, without her in my life. That’s the simple truth.

After the fiasco with my birthmother dying and seeing H at the funeral home (from a distance) I would like to say that it doesn’t matter. That her behavior and my brother’s made me finally not give a crap about her (and him). That I’ve shed the last tears about losing her. That my door is shut and I’ll never think of her again. That my heart doesn’t break anymore when I see sisters together, holding hands and sitting on each other’s lap.

But, I don’t know that my door will ever be firmly shut – to her. She’s my sister. My big sister. I will always love her fiercely. I will miss her every day of the rest of my life. I will miss her on my wedding day, the day I kiss my first child and on everyday that holds a monumental event in my life.

I just can’t stop missing her. I just can’t stop loving her.