Admiration of a Younger Brother

Admiration of a younger brother

When you have an older sibling often at a young age you use them as your idol, almost as if you’re their own personal god. They’re essentially the cool kid at your school that you model yourself after. You want to dress, talk and even eat like them. But at some point one of the siblings find that this admiration is often easily converted into worship that leads the older sibling to believe that they are able to psychology control the other. This unfortunately last for only so long before the younger one stops dealing with the shit that he or she is dealt and decides that they don’t need to listen to their siblings as they both came from the same womb, or something of that matter. This to me is often how sibling rivalry occurs, as it is also the point where the sibling relationship goes through its roughest of times. I’ve heard of people being in their thirty’s that are still bitter from growing up enduring a sibling relationship. Some that feel their relationship can never be sane and have accepted the fact that as siblings they just don’t like each other. I find this strange seeing how siblings are so much alike. A good percentage of how you turn out in life is dependent upon your siblings. I guess there’s not a realization that because of each other’s siblings’ likeness we can in many ways best relate to that of a brother or sister.

When I was younger I adored my sister even to the point of desiring her attire. I can recall times of fighting with my parents before preschool because I too wanted to wear a skirt to school, they never did let me. Nevertheless, I had seemed to pick up a collection of them in all different colors. There was white, red, and even pink, which for me was a sufficient amount to choose as soon as I would arrive home. I suppose that some find that a little weird, but she was my older sister, my best friend. Unfortunately, this only led her to the come upon the realization that she could manipulate me into doing her biddings. She would have me go get her clothes, things to drink, really much of anything that she desired. This wasn’t too bad though because in exchange she gave me the pleasures of taking part in such events as her wonderful childhood plays. Though as I was never the lead male, female or animal for that matter, she would always be considerate enough to give me the part of scenery. This usually came in the form of a bush, a tree or a plant. But every once in a while, I would get one of those really big parts; the ones that most people would never even get to see in their lifetime. My biggest role came when I was allowed to be a flower and I got to die, it was quite the exciting moment for me.

Around eight years later, I began to wise up and decided to tell her off. “I don’t want to be a tree anymore,” I told her “I want to be the lead, bitch!” This liberation ended up only resulting in the form of a black eye. Though it had worked to some avail because for the whole week I got to be the “can’t keep his balance bruised up tree, sissy ass bitch”. I don’t know if that ending part was in relation to the tree or just a name she had formed for me. But for some reason or another she kept calling me it after the play was over. In reaction to this, I would of course quickly go back to acting like a tree, but I began to get the feeling that she wasn’t referring to the play, although I never found out for sure.

Some people would think that after many years of watching these plays, our parents would have intervened, or at least of done something about me being the one that stood in the corner while my sister took on the four roles with any actual dialogue. But in response they would tell me that I always seemed to love it. I mean at least she was letting me do something.

I was twelve the first time I tried to strike back with physical force against my sister. Unfortunately that too failed, and my attempt to use my newfound pubaric strength left me pinned to the ground squirming as my sister hung spit over my head sucking it up inches away from my face. Sadly for me she was only able to make good on her attempts to scare me 9 out of 10 times. This would leave me with 1 out of 10 spit wads falling on my face, and let’s just say she would do it a whole lot more than 10 times. After discovering that I greatly disliked her Sylvia, this had become her new latest found torture of her adoring younger brother. I went though much of middle school having daily excursions into the act of spit torture.

Fortunately it seems that sister strength appears only to last until there brother shoots up to 6’4 and double them in weight. One of my most vivid memories in life was that first time that I got my sister pinned to the ground. As I accumulated the spit that would soon hang above her head, the very spit that had waited