I'm Not You

March 30th, 2022

Dear Nandini, 

She doesn't know I hear her in the early morning hours, crying for you.
They don't know I hear their hushed chatter, whispers surely after a poor night's sleep -- haunted by your dream-time visits.
Everything these days reminds us of you.
The songs on the radio, the heels in the store -- their height, their shape, their color.
The gifts you gave me over the years -- the clock, the aquarium too.
The clothes you left behind, your favorite foods -- all of it brings us back to you.

When I'm home, I pass by your room a few times a day.  No replaced furniture or paint job could ever wipe the memory of the disheveled, smoke-scented, cigarette-stained carpet, the lavender walls, or the pile of empty bottles underneath your bed.  I'm still reminded of what I was wearing that night I stood between the door and you as you tried to leave -- the liquor store not too far by car.  I remember the night you came home at 2 -- I awoke to hear the clattering of fallen objects, the slamming of doors and cabinets, and when I found you and got you dressed -- you were at the hospital by 4.  I remember every fight we had and when I said "I'm not you" I meant it with pride -- that I was never going to be this person that you were -- selfish, self-centered, driven by addiction with little space for anything or anyone else to be a priority.

But you were someone else for 10 years before I came into this world.  For longer, really -- even after I did.  Our parents miss that little girl -- but they missed her while you were still here.  Now, though, I think we miss who that little girl could have grown up to be.  A journey unfinished and a story unrealized -- without the resolution we had all hoped for.  A life, an idealism, that never existed -- that's a harder thing to miss and to long for, I think.  Something that never was or never could be.

Two different people, two distinct daughters on two totally different paths that could not be more divergent.  You had art, writing, and design while I took math, science, and sports.  You were solemn and serious and I couldn't be bothered to stop cracking jokes.  You were the "black sheep" and I was "perfect" -- obviously, far from it.  Seeking friendship and companionship was never something you cared too much about -- content with the company of but a few -- this is where we differed, too.  How disparate we were only grew more apparent as I got older.  In fact, I think I made it a point to stress to everyone else that I wasn't you.  Heaven forbid someone mistakenly called me by your name and if they did, I was always so angry.  All of these things you did that were branded as taboo -- I spent so much of my life focused on your mistakes that I forgot to celebrate your differences -- the things that made you you.  

Artistic, creative, sensitive, and thoughtful -- a foil to me in many ways.  We all serve very different roles in our parents' lives, bear different purposes.  Every time I look at pictures of the three of us I'm reminded of the roadside plaque we used to have displayed in our family room -- the one describing children as butterflies:  some may struggle, some fly right away, but each special in their own way.  Separate but equal.  I'm sure that's not the most eloquent way to say that but I think you get what I mean.

It made me realize when I say the words "I'm not you" now -- I don't feel the staunch desire to be anyone but you anymore.  Instead I feel a bit incomplete -- un-whole, partial, inadequate?  I mean to say that I could never replace you nor would I ever pretend to.  We often think of a long, healthy life as a life fulfilled and purposeful -- but I think that's unfair.  It discounts those whose lives were shortened for any number of reasons or those who had experienced strife in some way.  I would say your life had meaning and you had, have, purpose in this world.  We're fortunate when we get to be around to see the impact we have on others or the legacy we forge -- but I can be your eyes and ears while you're not here.

They say the older siblings troubleshoot life for their younger ones in tow.  I'm lucky to have had both you and our brother to learn from as I navigate my own life.  I'm sorry if I never said that to you and I'm sorry that we didn't talk enough -- if that made you feel ignored, unappreciated, overlooked, or cast aside.  In ways I think you could imagine, it's actually a lot easier to talk to you now than it ever had been before -- unfiltered, without hesitation, and without fear of judgment.  I never fully understood your life but as time passes I feel like I'm starting to.  I can't tell you how many patients I've met that remind me of you and every opportunity to care for them is maybe my way of caring for you in a way that I couldn't quite do.  I think if they knew they'd probably be grateful for you, too.

I'm not you -- because you're the only you there could ever be.
You mattered.
You still do.

Love,
Nilima