Family

I remember the first time I felt insecure. OK, that’s a lie. I’m certain I felt this countless times before this day, but there was something about this specific situation that set the stage for how I viewed my family for a long time.

It was your typical day in preschool. We sat around our colorful table— covered in crayons and construction paper. Kids were experimenting with glue sticks and cotton balls while our teacher was doing her best to keep our attention on the project at hand (I have so much respect for teachers). I was starting feel anxious because I couldn’t hear what Mrs. B wanted from us. I have been a rule follower my entire life and when someone of authority is barking out orders, you better believe I am all ears. So, you can only imagine how fast my little 4-year-old heart was beating when Josh, the boy next to me, was overtalking Mrs. B’s instructions. Our theme of the day was “Family” and we were to draw our best version of what our family looked like. “I only want you to draw your parents and siblings.” Josh was still tipping in his chair and clanking his pencil on the table, but I was certain I heard Mrs. B correctly. “Parents and siblings, got it”.

There I sat, yellow crayon in hand, putting my vision on paper. One by one, I drew each person who meant the world to me— Dad, Mom, Bridgette, Paula, Dale, Steve, Crecia, Larra, Josh, Brandon, Michael, Me and Christian. If you haven’t caught on yet, my family is HUGE! I am one of thirteen children- mind blown huh? I’m lucky number nine. When my parents met, my father had eight children from a couple previous marriages. My mom had one, then together, they had me, Christian, Amy, and then Faith. At the time, though, Christian was the youngest. 

I held up my paper towards the ceiling to admire my work of art. Everyone was lined up in order by age and stood about a quarter inch shorter than the next. I don’t know how long I sat there critiquing my masterpiece, must have been a while because Mrs. B kept calling for me to join our reading circle.

The next morning, I skipped to my seat with so much excitement. I couldn’t wait to get my paper back. I had big plans for it— it was going up on my fridge (such big dreams, ha!). I don’t know how many times Mrs. B passed me by. Why was I even surprised? With the last name Young, I knew I’d be last. “Brittany”— eek! There it was just as I described it to my parents the night before— my entire family, one standing next to the other, shoulders touching (because, hello, there were 13 people total and there isn’t enough space to draw when your crayons are as fat as your fingers). “Check-minus?” Are you kidding me? Gosh darn it, Josh. I knew you were too loud. I couldn’t hear Mrs. B and now I have a check-minus. “I need to explain myself. I need a second chance,” I thought. Tears filled my eyes as I threw my arm in the air.

As the teacher approached my desk, every emotion I felt that morning came spewing out as a blubbering mess. Through the tears and hyperventilating, I pled my case. Mrs. B was so kind and understanding as she rubbed my back until my breathing returned back to normal. “I only wanted you to draw your parents and siblings.” The look on her face when I explained my family dynamic is a face my 4-year old self will never forget.

It was then, in that moment, that I understood what “not normal” looked and felt like. I was embarrassed. Quick side note, something I want to make very clear here— I LOVE my family and each sibling with my entire being. I feel incredibly blessed to be one of now, thirteen kids. But a four-year-old’s mentality is much different. Standing out is not cool. Being different is not accepted and for an already timid little girl, this crushed me.

I don’t know if Mrs. B’s eyes could open any wider until I informed her of ALL my father’s previous marriages. It reminded me of that toy, you know, the rubber one when you squeeze it, the eyes pop out? Who knew a preschooler could bring the tea (insert wink face)? It must have made for a good story because by the time I finished, both assistants were sitting alongside ol’ Mrs. B.

Many years later, when asked how many siblings I had, I blurted out a rehearsed response, “I’m one of thirteen. But my dad was married before and my mom had one from a previous marriage as well. Together, I am their first, but I stand as number nine.” It always got awkward after that… maybe because you could tell it was practiced? Or maybe it wasn’t weird at all and it was just me reliving that moment at ABC Daycare? Who knows? Either way, I knew my family dynamic wasn’t “standard” or “traditional” which labeled me as “different”. I was judged— my family was judged. And knowing this played into my insecurities a little more than the typical growing pains a young girl experiences. 

My parents were married for 18 years and divorced when I was a Junior in High School. Most kids would find this to be a discouraging time, however this really was for the best. Don’t get me wrong, my heart broke the day my house did, but I had a level of understanding that our stability as a family needed two homes…if that makes sense? I love my parents with my whole heart but they functioned better without the other. Their divorce on the other hand, broke my brothers. Michael never had a solid relationship with his biological father. I will not speak anymore on that— I do not know the circumstances behind why. However, I will say it wasn't from a lack of effort. His father, stepmother and sisters love him deeply. Michael always pulled away. The reality was my father was in his life since he was 3 years old. He viewed my dad as his own, so this struck him a bit differently. Christian’s poor little heart shattered— it changed him. I think his view on trust changed after that. My sisters were very young at the time— Amy was seven and Faith was months old. I grew very protective over them, helping my mom as much as I could while she led us in our new way of life. 

Michael, at the time, was living with his longtime girlfriend (later wife) leaving me the oldest child to live at home. I never saw him much… Even when he lived at home, he stayed locked in his room, away from the normal everyday chaos. So not talking to him seemed more natural than actually talking to him. When we did interact, it was usually forced and equally as uncomfortable. We didn’t share the same friend circle, per se, however my friends were the siblings of his friends. Oddly enough there were times I felt jealous towards them. His friends got to know him— really see him for who he was. I had the privilege of calling him my brother, yet he was a stranger living under the same roof. How did this happen? As an adult and now a parent myself, I see how not normal his behavior really was. Isolating himself from family should have been a huge red flag for us. But he was good at downplaying and manipulating situations. If he wasn’t charming my mom, he was working his teachers. For a kid who barely made it to class on time or participated, he made decent grades— better than me! I can’t tell you how many times I found him roaming the hallways in high school. “Dude, what are you doing?” I’d ask. Immediately he’d get this sly grin and shrug his shoulders. I knew what he was doing. He was waiting for the perfect time to flee. For the life of me, I could never figure out where he'd go.

He was a Senior when I was a Freshman in High School. I remember feeling excited to be at the same school as him…maybe we could get to know each other better? I made sure to inform every teacher that Michael E. was my big brother. I don’t know why? Even though we had zero relationship, I was still a very proud little sister. From what I could see, people loved him. He was quiet but when around the right crowd his guard came down and the jokes came out.

I sat the other day reminiscing our childhood together. I tried to pinpoint when he started to become distant…I can’t. For as long as I can remember, Michael has always been withdrawn, a man of few words and secretive. I don’t know why. Was this just with us? Was he this way with his friends? Strangers? I can recall a time when Christian and I were playing Barbies (it was just the three of us for a long time. Thank God Christian didn’t mind being subjected to my doll obsession) and Michael kept peeking through the crack of my bedroom door. It was extremely distracting. One because I just added a new Skipper to my collection and I was trying to concentrate on how I wanted to cut her hair (sorry mom) and two, because he never wanted to play with me. “Do you want to play?” I asked. Slowly my door came open and a boy I barely knew but called my brother walked in. He brought in his GI Joe and quietly sat down next to Christian. I watched him from the corner of my eye for a while. I was curious about him. I was intrigued by his imagination. There he sat moving his action figure from hand to hand, not saying a word. His eyes gazed at his toy, never losing focus. I sat on edge waiting for something, anything to come from his mouth— nothing. This image would describe much of our relationship throughout our childhood to present time.

I’m not sure when I realized my brothers had a problem. Honestly, it feels as though this dark cloud has always hovered over us. Maybe high school? Michael stayed locked away in his room. I don’t know why, but his bedroom intrigued me. Like when your parents tell you NOT to touch something, you can’t help but want to! His bedroom was off limits at all times... except when no one was looking of course! His mysteriousness piqued my interest, “Who are you?”  Christian and I had a system when he was gone. One of us would stand guard while the other went exploring every nook and cranny. When someone was coming, the other would cough (clearly creativity doesn’t run in our family. Cough?) His room was spotless. Even his bedding was nicely tucked, not a wrinkle in place. Truck magazines stacked by month, coin jars organized by coin value, posters clung to his walls hiding the green paint that once was and the smell of incense lingered through the air. It seemed like a normal place of refuge, it appeared “normal” until you looked in his closet.  

One summer night my parents left me in charge of Christian and Amy. Michael was gone per usual so this left us full range to explore every corner of his chamber. Little did I know that what we would find would alter how I viewed my brother for most of my life.