The Other Other Sister

Meet me, meet my family. That's me - right there. No, not the alarmingly beautiful artist one with the stunning daughter. I'm also not the scientific genius with the perfect adorable little family. Look past them, past the eternally innocent sister who is disabled, past the tall blue-eyed handsome boy and further still past the creative entrepreneur. That one at the back on tippy toes, trying to strain my head above the crowd, waving madly, now, that one is me. I am the other other sister.

Finding an identity in a large family is a difficult thing to do, especially when you are mediocre at most things, but a master of none. Parental time is sparse, especially with the addition of our youngest sister, whose disability meant life as we had come to know it ceased to exist and we suddenly, unexpectedly, lived to new rules. Rules that no-one knew existed and no-one knew who made them or when a new one would be needed. These rules included the habitual farming out of siblings to different branches of the family during extended hospital stays, a perpetually tired mother and the family holding their breath on several instances when the moment turned life-or-death. In return, she, our sister, gave us happiness. A naughty, giggly girl, who throughout her pain, brought joy to our family.

What of our fathers? Us eldest three saw our father leave when I was just two for life with another family. He is still in our life, but he is not part of the household I am sharing with you. The younger three? Well, their father had difficulty accepting us elder children, but loved his three dearly. After a while he too left our mother to care for the whole family. What can I say? She is not an angel - but not far from it.

I love being from a big family. You are never alone and you are never short of someone to talk, play or argue with. But with all these siblings, comes competition, and with siblings like mine, competition is high. Without a unique skill of my own, I would watch and learn from theirs. I would challenge them with my mediocre version of their genius, and fail, but in doing so make myself just a little bit better each time.

For most of my teenage years I was uncomfortable in my own skin, and at times, wished I could be more like my elder sister. It wasn't until my university days in London (a big step for a farm girl whose nearest neighbour was fields away) and later in my working life that I found I quite liked being me. Hearing your own thoughts is a luxury after a noisy, crowded childhood. It is from this that my addiction to thinking began...