Seven Year (b)Itch

Yes, it has been seven years since my sister died; seven and a half. My silly, complicated, eighteen-year-old, the-world-is-your-oyster - sister. In the movie The Seven Year Itch, Elwell argues that many men have affairs after seven years of marriage. While I do not have any scientific nor social statistical proof that this is, in fact, accurate, the idea still sticks with me. The idea that after seven years, you start to get restless. Things aren't what they used to be, and maybe you aren't where you thought you would be. You try to look for what is missing, and try to fill the void.

I have been journaling the past month or two, which has been quite cathartic. On July 4th, I had a moment where I thought my life would be so different if my sister were alive. When you graduate high school, the big question grown-ups like to ask is "where do you see yourself in ten years"? My answer was that I'd probably be living in Europe working in Social Welfare or traveling to third world countries or in the Peace Corps making a meager living, possibly as a translator after majoring in foreign languages in University. I never thought I would be married and have three dogs and gain fifty pounds and go to Graduate School for the same thing my aunts and my mother studied. Most of that happened in the past seven years. Actually, the only thing that didn't happen in those seven years is that I had one dog, Bean, who is nine. And I do not have a sister.

I have tried in so many ways to fill the void. I have surrogate sisters that got me through my wedding day. I have friends I can call or text at all hours. My brother is very supportive in ways that Caroline never was. I have a husband that is very sweet and dear and supportive. I have my sister's books and some sketches. I have her initials tattooed on my arm.

My seven year itch feels like a quarter-life crisis. How do I go forward memorializing my sister when it has been so long ago? To continue on, thinking about her everyday, considering what Caroline would have thought or said about something she had seen or done, seems like I'm stuck in an unhealthy pattern. But I think the same things about Rob, so I call him up and ask him, or text him, or meet up with him. I cannot quit having my sister in my life. It is uncomfortable at times - when a three year old asks me if I have a little brother or sister (in a nutshell - yes, a sister, they can be a pain in the rear-end, and they will steal your clothes when you're older).

Here is what I propose: grief counseling. I believe I have life experience that I can pass on to others. That's the goal I am going to have to put my energy into. I will have to answer difficult questions. I will struggle with smoking cigarettes (I'm not a smoker, but I do have a cigarette here and there. Note to new friends: Caroline died due to a cigarette left on a sofa and the resulting CO2, so I have extra guilt added to that one cigarette).  I have new family members and new friends. Life goes on - yet there is still a tug at my heart when sisters go to the movies together or even fight. I will not have that again. And that's okay.

I get moody and bitchy and I don't want to talk about it. A simple thing like a song on the radio will set me off, mostly because Brennan is butchering it. Poor, poor, me; woe as the pain set upon the privileged white woman (this is the major reason I have been against having a blog, but wait, I'm getting there). Classes start this month. I'm not where I thought I would be 10 years ago; who would have thought I would get married in my twenties? But I am totally in love and happy here in my save haven. I will create change at a very small level, but it will be a positive change. I will be a support system. I will be strong when I need to be, and I don't have to be strong all of the time.

 My punk-loving, skater-dating, independent sister still lives on. I will say a phrase that she used to say, or Rob will make a face that reminds me of Caroline. She will be eighteen forever. Things will settle, and soon it will be eight years; then a decade; and on and on. Sometimes I will act eighteen and irresponsible and silly and dance to music that isn't there. And that's okay.