My brother Marc-Emile sparkled brilliantly. At sixteen he could study physics or Plato, analysis or auto mechanics, Stravinsky or Steppenwolf. At seventeen he began reading the Great Books series, from Homer and Aeschylus to the Greeks. I don't know how many of these great books he read. He didn't have that long.
My brother had everything to himself. He was kind, ethical, and handsome. He graduated from high school a year early, at the top of his class, with practically perfect SATs. He started out at MIT as a physics major. A year later he also ended up at MIT. At the age of nineteen he threw himself to his death from the tallest building on campus.
Then I was there, Marc & # 39; s little sister. Everyone knew me too, but not because I was brilliant. I was exceptional in a less appealing way, having been badly burned in a fire when I was four years old. I barely survived this injury, leaving my lower lip, chin, neck, and upper arms merged into my upper body. Light purple raised scars traveled the length of my little body.
I spent month after month in the hospital alone, undergoing one horrific reconstructive operation after another. When I got home I was bullied and ridiculed, kids ran past me yelling "Yuck!" As they fled, laughing. The children's hospital was my playground. Wheelchair races were my football. I couldn't take ballet because I couldn't raise my arms above my head.
Why do I now live a contented, fulfilling life, am I happily married and surrounded by friends? And why did my extraordinary, gifted brother commit suicide forty years ago? Nobody would have bet on this result.
Perhaps there was a reference to our baby photos. As toddlers, each of us was taken to a professional photography studio. In his photos, my brother sits cooperatively on a wooden stool and holds a ball with stars on it. He looks into the camera with thoughtful eyes and half smiles. In another photo he is playfully holding a toy train. Again he looks at the camera, observing and reserved.
The page flips through the photo album and there I am. I laugh, my mouth stretched out as far as possible. I have tiny eyebrows that are comically raised. I keep my head flirtatious. I'm probably nine months old and I clearly have the time of my life. I don't even need a toy. I am a party to myself
My basic temperament was different from Marc's. I was kind; he was an introvert. I was optimistic; he was prone to depression. I was happy; he was sad. From the beginning we have shown these differences, differences that turn out to be critical factors in our survival.
I've been trying all my life to find out why I'm still here when my brother isn't. It feels wrong even four decades later. I feel its absence as a pain in my chest, a slight stabbing on the left side, like a slender silver knife slipping into my heart. His absence was present in me every day of my life.
One day I developed into a joke is National Sibling Day, a recurring nightmare of a day that happens every April 10th. My friends post loving photos of themselves, arms around their brother or sister. Sometimes they share old photos taken decades ago and cleverly pose in new photos to recreate the original image. They stand and hug each other in identical positions, but now with gray hair and glasses. They smile, grin over the past few years and share the joke with each other.
I don't know how the National Sibling Day started or whose good idea it was. I never had to endure that day. My only consolation, and it is cold consolation indeed, is the camaraderie of my friend's daughter who lost her only sibling four years ago. For the past four years I have texted dear Laura every year on April 10th.
"Happy F-g National Sibling Day. I love you. "
Laura answers within seconds. "I know. It's terrible. I love you too."
I'm here, Marc is not. I am resilient despite all adversities. Despite the odds in his favor, he was not resilient. It turns out that being naturally cheerful might be more important than reaching the SATs.
Perhaps this year of COVID-19 and other disasters, the ability to be cheerful is the most important gift of all.
I am optimistic and optimistic even though I have been burned, abandoned, neglected, bullied and lost my favorite person in the world. I don't necessarily want to be happy. it just happens. I'm like the red and white plastic bobber at the end of a fishing line. I go under and then just emerge for no other reason than what I'm doing. It's my temper. I do not choose.
Marc also did not choose his temperament; none of us do. Our genes are what they are. Fortunately, genetics aren't the only factor in resilience. Life experience is just as important as social support.
Optimism can be encouraged. Gratitude can be edited. We can teach people the skills to deal with them at home, in our schools, or in our psychotherapy offices.
We can teach the importance of physical, mental and emotional self-care so that they develop a strong foundation for well-being. We can give them tools to deal with life's challenges – like redefining struggles as opportunities, focusing on things they can control, finding strength in whatever they have overcome, and letting other people in. And we can teach them to recognize stress before it escalates so you can calm down and calm down.
Resilience is like intelligence: some people are naturally born smarter, but everyone can learn. Some people are born more resilient, but everyone can be helped.
We have to set our collective eyes on those who are sad, appear hopeless and not smile at the camera. In this time of quarantine and social isolation, we really need to keep our eyes open now because the emotional burden is mounting.
Science tells us that resilience can be improved. Offering help, however, is more complicated, time-consuming and expensive than simply warning: “Be more resilient!” Demanding resilience does not make it possible. Some people need to learn how.
Let's not pretend we all start on the same starting line. And when we speak of a life where I missed my brother … we don't leave anyone behind.
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