Writing by Kelsey Vickers
There are dozens of photos of me as young as two years old with all my toys in a row on the kitchen floor, organized by size and category, from Littlest Pet Shop to My Little Pony. By four, I became meticulous with the placement of my toys and the position of each object in my room. Once an item found Its Place, it cemented there. I expected everyone around me to share this sentiment, including my two-year-old sister. Playtime was not worth the price of destruction.
My name became synonymous with “Bossy” and “Bad Sharer.” I deemed everyone aside from myself incapable of taking care of my belongings. Broken, dirty, lost – the possibilities of what could happen when someone else had my things were endless. No one understood the severity of the situation. Parents disapproved of my territorial quality, thinking of me as spoiled, so I had to give a little leeway. I allowed sharing under strict surveillance. I must see you wash your hands before you touch my book. Before coloring, I will demonstrate how to snap the Sharpie cap shut properly. I couldn’t make the same mistake again, allowing another Sharpie to dry out at the hands of an untrustworthy individual. They were a gift for my tenth birthday, they required care.
My mother grew concerned as this issue became more pressing. Before bed, she put a stuffed animal on the floor and tilted a picture frame, forbidding me from putting them in order. She wanted me to see that everything would be okay in the morning. Falling asleep that night was treacherous. Things were not okay; they weren’t in Their Places. As soon as I was granted permission to, I fixed everything. Nothing will ever be okay unless I make it.
My focus expanded to other endeavors that were promised to my control alone: chores, schoolwork, and skills. I started doing the dishes and my laundry at nine. I was rewarded with a hamster. This was both a privilege and the most defining test of my responsibility at that age. My sister, who was seven at the time, had to have one too. She didn’t understand the responsibility she was undertaking. Feeding them, watering them, and cleaning the hefty glass aquariums they inhabited were entirely our responsibilities. Briefly, her hamster became mine. She would rather not have a hamster than clean the aquarium, so I took care of him until she was ready to claim him as her own again. It was not a rare occurrence for her responsibilities to be forfeited to me. I often preferred it that way.
By thirteen, I voluntarily took on upstairs cleaning: scrubbing every inch of the bathroom and vacuuming each room. This routine occurred every Sunday without fail, I postponed hangouts with friends to ensure that I had time for chores.
My sister was the only interference to my arrangement. She was repelled by responsibility. No matter the age, whether it was toys, makeup, or clothes, they were scattered everywhere. Water could always be found all over the sink and dirty towels hoarded in her room. She always managed to wriggle her way out of chores. She had to learn and as her older sister, I believed it was my obligation. I asked, begged, scolded, cried, and attempted to ignore it, but it always ended in tattling. I pleaded with our mom to make her do chores and when she was old enough, force her to get a job. I needed her to be like me.
When the pandemic hit, my education was simple and wasn’t enough to occupy my time anymore. My health was added to the list of things no one could disturb. I followed a strict exercise regimen and took over grocery shopping and cooking family dinners. This extended time at home also meant more time with the messes. My control issues coupled with my sister’s turbulent age of thirteen led to an unprecedented level of conflict. I started to notice a pattern in our arguments. If I chose to put up a fight, I could count on one to three days of side eyes and jagged remarks. I could also count on nothing changing, other than the way she looked at me. She became dependent on her best friend’s sister for advice regarding school and bad teachers, something I had looked forward to sharing with her for years.
Still, her habits made me so angry because they were so wrong. Dry off the counter when you’re finished. Put the towels in the bin. Pick up your crumbs. Keep that picture frame at a 30-degree angle. Don’t let your toys get dirty. Don’t let your markers dry out. These are the rules I lived by. How could they not apply to her?
When I started my first job, my chores were transferred over to her. I felt my purpose dull. It was unfathomable that someone else could take over so easily. I felt a burning need to do these things, despite my lack of desire, because no one else did them the right way and it’s what I built my self-worth upon.
When I moved out for college, she took to cooking and grocery shopping like I had. In the blink of an eye, my importance in the home dissolved entirely. The home is not dependent on me, yet I carried that weight as if it were.
Sometimes, my sister returns to find her room cleaned and laundry put away by our mother. I get so jealous, wishing my family could still see that softness in me, someone to be taken care of. Yet, I prevented it. I prefer how I do things. I would be upset to find someone had touched my things while I was gone. Would something be missing, damaged, or God forbid, not in Their Place?
No one depended on me as the authority figure I assumed myself to be, and no one nurtured me as the daughter that I am. Grown up and independent, an unnecessary extension of the family.
This past summer, there was a shift. The orderliness of the home despite my absence was a forceful push into reality; everything will be okay even if I’m not the one to make it so. With the distance at college, I discovered a newfound sense of independence. I have more homework, hobbies, friendships to foster, and a clear direction for myself that I never had. This space allowed me to exercise control over my life without misjudging that I can control others.
I still view myself as responsible for my sister, but now I embrace my role as a sibling and not a savior. I fantasized about who my hypothetical older sister might have been since I was young. She would give me the best advice and take me everywhere. I want to be her for my sister. So, I show her the best coffee spots, take her to get her ears pierced, make her handmade gifts, take her on spontaneous shopping trips, and let her use my Sharpies.
My knickknacks could all be in Their Places, the whole house clean, and the fridge could be stocked, but if I had pushed my sister out of my life, things would not be okay in the morning. Control is not worth the price of that destruction.
She is my oldest and favorite friend. We are the only ones who will bear witness to each other’s lives in their entirety. Unfortunately, that includes the parts of myself I prayed no one else could see. It also includes the parts I feared were lost to time, like my favorite animal being a flamingo as a girl. When I laugh with her, it feels like the first time. Her singing is my favorite sound. Her love is true blue.
I hope it’s the first thing people notice about me, they sense it. As if it’s as potent as the perfume I sprayed and as obvious as the color of my hair. Our eyes meet and they think, “She is an older sister.”
