It's hard to put into words what it means to have a sister who isn't "normal"—especially in just a few lines. I'm not the kind of person who usually writes about her problems. But this time I feel I have to, because I know my experience might help others my age who live with a disabled brother or sister and want to build something better together.
It sounds like a contradiction, yet without her here beside me every day, my life would suddenly feel pointless.
I learned this too late, given that she's twenty-four. She gives everything to everyone, without calculation or self-interest—words I'm all too familiar with, the ones I use to get by in the world I live in.
I'll never fully understand her. Even when she insults me or picks a fight, I have to remind myself it's not out of meanness or superiority. It's her way of saying she has a voice too.
I need to accept her as she truly is—not as I wish she were, some perfect picture.
The love she shows my younger brother and me should be met with love and selflessness. We should listen to her advice, and help her understand, gently, that she doesn't have to use a harsh tone just because she's the oldest.
My father steps in quickly and gets us to reflect. Then peace returns. (By his account, our family is a zoo.)
Despite the small fights, the three of us understand each other. Especially when it comes to friends.
There's no difference between my friends and hers. I want to be clear about that, because I think it's wonderful that she's been spending time with the people I've introduced her to. We've gone on Sunday outings organized by different groups—all kinds of activities, right up to real birthday parties at friends' houses.
Sometimes we go out to nightclubs for New Year's or Carnival with the group. I'll be honest: I find it embarrassing to go with "C," because I tell myself I won't be able to have fun the way I want to—I'll be too busy looking after her. So I go alone instead.
But I know that's wrong. I know it hurts her.
My parents tell me I'm asking too much of her, that I'm forcing her to suffer by insisting she come along when she'd be uncomfortable anyway. So instead, they turn into clowns and singers and dancers, and they make her and my brother laugh until they can't anymore.
We go to Fede e Luce regularly, especially for the parish group gatherings and parties.
But I'm sad to say that the friends from the group—outside the time we spend together praying and singing and sharing meals—find it easy to look away on the street, or on the bus, when they see kids like my sister.
Maybe it's because they're busy. But believe me, it hurts. You're walking with "C" and you see a friend—someone you thought was a friend—suddenly change direction to avoid saying hello.
Still, I thank my sister, with a capital T. Her presence fills my life with meaning more each day. And I pray to God that he helps me understand her better and better.