Little Big Man

When my younger brother was little, we told him we had a magic spoon that could turn white milk into chocolate milk. We would put the syrup in the bottom of one of those plastic Tupperware cups when he wasn’t looking, then he would watch us pour the milk on top. He would stare down in wonder as the milk turned chocolate as we stirred with some old mismatched teaspoon we found in the jar.

Gregory was born when I was in kindergarten. I wanted a sister. But then I discovered, boy or girl, it didn’t matter. I had a captive audience. As soon as he was old enough, I dragged him along like a living baby doll. I sat him in a chair and taught him whatever I thought he needed to know the most. He carried the teddy bears as I carried the blanket for one of many grand picnics, without the food. I dressed him up in my very beautiful, very expensive dance costume, before I even wore it in the recital. Mom was furious with us when he wet it.

Gregory hated to be alone, so he was usually with me. We would roam the Revco, and he would ask me to buy his candy bar because he didn’t want to break a dollar and I was already going to. It worked on my older brother, too. He followed me to my secret places, and, after hollering (when you’re ten in the south, it’s called hollering) I would let him in. We pretended we were acrobatic performers on the trampoline when we weren’t pitching the softball to each other. Since he was always underfoot, he was also always getting hurt. My older brother slid in some sand and hit him with the bicycle. I think I was the one that hit him with the softball bat. It didn’t really hurt him seriously. He also rolled down the stairs, knocked himself out by falling of the couch onto the hardwood floors, rode his tricycle off the front porch right into the sticky bush (he was trying to jump it like Evel Knievel), and got right in the middle of a dogfight trying to retrieve a toy. He still has the scar from that one.

But it never mattered. He was like the Webbles who never fell down. He was always happy. Later, in school, I would marvel at his consistency. He might not be the most intelligent, but his performance never varied.

By the time I entered college, it was apparent that he was the most stable, most emotionally healthy person I had ever met. If something bad happened, he dealt with it and forgot it. If he made a mistake, he simply resolved not to make it again. It was no surprise that he graduated from high school with excellent grades and a very good engineering scholarship.

Meanwhile, I was a single mom college dropout looking for a new job. Imagine, we came from the same womb, ate at the same table, obeyed the same parents, and even had many of the same teachers. Obviously he didn’t hit it on the bipolar genetic lottery.

But, like always, Gregory insisted that I was smarter. That I could do things he would never be able to do. He came home once while he was taking a psychology class and informed me that I was the textbook bipolar, and that I must never stop taking my medicine. I informed him that I was already aware of that but thanks for watching out for me anyway.

No one doubted that Gregory would make good grades and have a rousing social life. When he was home, he always invited me to go out with his friends, even though they were younger than me, because he knew it was something I rarely had a chance to do. We would go to dinner, to movies, shopping. I never felt alone when he was around.

He breezed through engineering school, or so it seemed, always checking on me, calling me in the hospital even if I was too sick to talk. He patiently helped me learn again how to converse after I spent five weeks in the hospital talking almost to no one. I always knew what to expect from Gregory. He never got angry with me. I envied his ability to just go through life, not high, not low, just normal. I craved it, that normalcy.

My last attempt was the week before his college graduation. I was supposed to attend. My parents decided not to tell him until after his final days as a college student were over. I agreed. I felt guilty enough without feeling like I had robbed him of that important event.

When he found out, like always, he wasn’t angry. He loved me. Just like I knew he would.

Recently after he just started a new job, he told me over dinner that it took a week before he could even think about eating breakfast before work. He was tired. He was human, with negative feelings, too. After depending for so long on his dependability, I forgot that he needed me, too. After all, I was still his big sister.

For three free online issues of McMan's Depression and Bipolar Weekly, email me and put "Sample" in the heading and your email address in the body.

Melissa's Story All articles

Post your opinion here.

Melissa

Newsletter

Your online source for issues that matter to you.

For free samples, email me and put "Sample" in the heading and your email address in the body.

Find out more.

Bookstore

Shop for depression and bipolar books online here.

Share Your Story

Two simple facts: 1) Everyone has a story, and 2) Our illness unites us all. Please feel free to share your story with us. Don't sell yourself short - your message will resonate with many. Send your thoughts or a finished narrative by emailing me.