Growing up our parents pitted us against each other and made us pick sides and then we fought nonstop. I forgot there was ever a time where we used to be close but she remembered everything. She asked if I remembered playing in our dad’s truck bed. I forgot he even had a truck but it came back to me when she asked. We pretended the basement was ancient Egypt, we pretended to be lions under the kitchen table. We played in the truck bed and she’d write stories and I drew pictures. But my parents fought all the time and she looked like my mom and I looked like my dad and eventually they expected us to hate eachother too, so we did. Mom beat us so we started beating eachother. But we were meant to be close. She loved me so much. She was meant to pull me into the spotlight and I was meant to calm her down, and we were meant to be that dance of yin and yang forever. Because that didn’t happen, I spent so many years sinking deeper and deeper into depression, and she sank deeper and deeper into impulsivity and mania. There was a sweet spot where we were so close and she understood me in ways nobody else did, and we hung out almost every single day. She was the one that extended the olive branch in our adulthood and made us friends again. She was the one to apologize. I never would have done it. That month we lived together when I was inbetween leases, we were closer than ever. That month was what our entire life was supposed to be like. You needed me and I needed you. Now, both of our lives are forever incomplete.
