It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. That describes my childhood to a T, especially as it relates to my relationship with my sisters.
I have two younger sisters, and our relationships could not be more different.
L and I were always close. She was born when I was still a baby, about the same age Azita is now. We were tight from the very beginning. We actually had our own rooms at the time, but it was not uncommon when we were growing up for us to end up in the same room by morning. I remember the both of us huddling under the covers whispering secrets and stories to each other until the rest of the world was long asleep, when even the crickets had stopped chirping. In college we sometimes stayed on the phone with each other for the entire night while we did our homework and studied for exams. It was as if we just needed to hear each other breathing to be all right. Maybe it was the fact that we made it through some horrible things together, but knowing that we are there for each other has always sustained us. A therapist once told me that maybe we kept each other alive, because she was surprised we could have survived otherwise.
My relationship with S. Well, let’s just say that I remember clearly the moment she entered our lives and the rejection I felt whenever I tried to befriend her. It wasn’t even the fact that her birth seemed to erase any love my mother had left for me. She also rejected me in a way that was uncanny to say the least. As an infant she seemed to cry and scream when I tried to hold her or play with her. I was heartbroken as the thought of a baby sister whom I could care for had excited me for my mother’s entire pregnancy, or as much of it as I was aware of anyway. Things only got worse over time. She was a bully, often joining my mother in taunting me about my weight or my appearance or even the way I smelled.
It is something I will never forget. When we entered our 20s I believed time would make things better. I foolishly responded to her every attempt to befriend me only to be shattered once she had my trust. And it always ended that way. She always lashed out at me. I was always more hurt than the time before. Frequently she took with her any relationship or communication I had with my parents. The last time was when I was pregnant with Azita. As I lay there on the couch sobbing, my blood pressure rising, Azita perfectly still inside me, I realized I had to cut all ties.
L confirmed this for me. “You have to think of the baby,” she said. She was right. I had to think of my baby. And when Azita was born IÂ knew nothing else mattered. I had her, I had Roger, and I had my extended family.
My aunts, uncles, cousins, they have all been an important part of my life. I am Iranian-American, and I often think those two sides of me clash as much as our governments do. My parents instilled in me a strong sense of my Iranian identity, but I was born in the U.S. and I always keenly felt the difference between me and other Iranians, even those in my family. It was my extended family that made me feel like I belonged to any group at all. The Iranian side of my identity is so strongly tied to having them in my life, and when Azita was born I wanted to make sure that she had them in her life also. Because she is half-Iranian, and I often feel like I cannot make sure she is fully connected to that part of her without my family. My extended family is her village.
Earlier this year, S tried to befriend me again. I was wary, and I told her so. Nevertheless I relented and invited her to Azita’s 1st birthday party. I immediately regretted my decision. Every interaction with her was filled with stress, almost anguish really. Not only did I want to always be present and positive for Azita, but I wanted to be happy. For once. I talked to a therapist, and there was no doubt in her mind that I needed to sever this relationship.
So I did.
What I didn’t expect is that the relationship with my extended family might also be severed. Recently S moved back to our home state. Amazingly she began to reach out to our family. Based on opinions she previously shared with me, it was shocking to me that she would ever reach out to them. Imagine my surprise when I saw posts on their Facebook walls and even worse, she showed up at a family picnic.
I am now in a position I dread. My sense of propriety makes me reticent to make others uncomfortable. I will not require others to make a decision between inviting me or inviting my sister. But I also do not want to see her, and more importantly, I do not want my daughter to be exposed to her dysfunction. It is clear to me that I will no longer have people and events that mean so much to me in my life. No more Nowruz (Iranian New Year) with family. No more dance and music-filled family picnics at Burke Lake. No more impromptu breakfasts with the even more impromptu jam sessions that follow them.
I not only feel gutted, I can see large chunk of my identity slipping away from me. And also from Azita. I fear not only that I will be adrift but that I will deny her of a rich heritage. Today I doubted my decisions. Maybe my happiness was not worth this.
And then I remembered the end of A Tale of Two Cities, that final line: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.” Sometimes in a life brimming with chaos and hurt there is no real happy ending. Something must die for happiness to ultimately be achieved. I can only hope a really good thing, the best of my times both past, present and future, does not die with it.
