When You Lose Your Twin, It Seems As If The World Is An Awful Place To Live
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When You Lose Your Twin, It Seems As If The World Is An Awful Place To Live

I feel like I’m going to live life struggling and I’m not going to make it. Honestly, my life goal is just to get away from here.

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When You Lose Your Twin, It Seems As If The World Is An Awful Place To Live
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It started in the first month of many, the nine months that I was supposed to spend in my mommas’ belly. My sister, Tierra, and I were on our way to the great big world. The world where mistakes occur, the world where dreams come true, and the world where we learn to experience, to want, and to need.

We spent four whole months together, and boy let me tell you, it gets very frustrating when there are two giant sardines in one can. That was the month where I noticed my sister stopped moving. I told her to wake up, but she insisted on sleeping a little longer.

One month later, I was born, but my sissy wasn’t there. She’d left me. She died, the doctor said, and claimed that I was supposed to die too. The nine months I was supposed to spend in my mommas’ belly turned out to be five and since then, my entire life has inevitably been a series of downfalls.

When I was three, I lived in Spewing Camp, Kentucky; I had been playing outside, catching crawdads in the shallow creek-bed and running back home with them to show my mother. She was terrified of those things, she would scream, “Get those godforsaken things away from this house!” it never failed.

My dad taught me that my momma was scared of them, and I never let that down. I would annoy her every chance I had, but after I finished playing, I came home, bathed with my favorite toys, and then crawled into bed with my bubby.

I was lost in my dreams in less than ten minutes; however, I was awakened by the sound of my mother screaming in the midst of the night. I anxiously opened my bedroom door see my father lying lifeless on the kitchen floor.

He’d just gotten home from the dirty ole’ coal mines, his workplace, and took an icy cold shower to cool himself.

Then, he had a heart attack.

At this time, I was clueless as to what was happening, but I knew that I was never going to see my daddy again. I didn’t until he was laying in his grey casket about to be buried six feet under. I cried for a week straight.

I wanted my daddy to come home and to sing me one last song on his guitar, to put me on his back and dance like a fool, or to say, “I love you, Princess” one last time, but he never came back.

My daddy left me.

In first grade, I liked a boy. I watched him everywhere, always tried to get close to him, and memorized his schedule. I’d probably label myself borderline obsessed by this point, although I was only like five –– I’d liked him since head-start.

Eventually, he developed an interest in me. A week later, we began dating at a lunch table in the Elementary School cafeteria. For the span of two short weeks, I bought him bouncy balls and we played games like hopscotch, hide and seek, and tag together. Man, those were the good old days, weren’t they? I’d found out that he liked another girl and I was completely devastated.

I walked up to him, smacked him, and told him it was over.

Later that day, I was moping around the concrete outside of the office when his best friend, my archenemy, came up to me and stared me dead in the eye. I just stood there, stared back, and said “What?” “You think you’re pretty and... all that.” He smiled, “Well, you’re not. You’re fat and ugly.”

Now, this may not seem like a great deal to you, but to five-year-old me, it was the first time experiencing something other than being called “nice” or “pretty.”

At age five, I was broken, considering I’d always been such a nice little girl that never did anything to harm anyone and loved helping people. I was the greatest person I knew.

That was until my security left me.

In fifth grade, I had been stuck with a label, like one upon a can of green-beans or soda pop, I was a weird kid. This may be what sparked the fire that has been lit, but I had only two friends. Really, just two. Friend one: he was the smartest kid in class –– I always wanted to be like him, and so did everyone else. Instead of having a ninety-five on that history test, I wanted a hundred –– just like him. He always got a hundred, always. I admired him for that.

Friend two: she was very shy and emotional. To be frank, she didn’t have any friends. She always sat alone, blankly, and spoke to no one. However, we became great friends after I decided to befriend her at lunch in my second year.

She was intriguing and wonderful, but she had many internal problems for a ten-year-old. She saw a therapist and harmed herself, and sometimes I would catch her crying in the back of the classroom.

She moved.

And friend one? Everyone noticed his potential and stole him from me. My classmates played the “noble game” and befriended him in order to get good grades. I lost my friends by being theirs, and by being theirs, I lost everyone. I lost my childhood friends.

In seventh grade, I quit the basketball team. I’d played for five years and decided that I couldn’t work with my current teammates. After moving up a few grades, I realized how much people change and how awful that one can become. I didn’t like them; they were rude, selfish, and absolute ball-hogs.

This was one of the worst choices that I’ve ever made.

I missed it more than anything because it kept me sane. After I’d quit, my parents wouldn’t let me join back. I was completely devastated, so I joined the academic team.

This led to me making friends with more “nerds,” and I couldn’t have been happier. Until, somewhere along the line, I realized how awful they were. I mean, of course, we were made fun of for being academically capable –– for some unknown reason that I’ve never seemed to grasp–– but some of us were actually really bad people.

They’d made fun of mentally incapable people and put down those were didn’t take advanced classes. In time, I did it because I wanted to fit in. I decided to make fun of those who weren’t capable of what I was doing. I began to lose my humanity.

In addition, this was when I was with my first “serious” boyfriend, and all my friends hated me. He’d cheated on me—with a guy—and might I say, that was very embarrassing, but I still let him back into my life.

One of my friends had recently gotten a girlfriend and we had some “beef,” so he chose her over me. Another friend was his best friend (since childhood), so he left me too. My greatest friend of all, my weird friend that moved back from childhood, absolutely loathed me because she liked my boyfriend.

She claimed that I didn’t follow “bro-code” when I was in seventh grade, but I hadn’t known that she’d liked him at all. My heart was broken, not because I had a horrible boyfriend, though I did, but because the people that promised me that they’d be there left without hesitation.

I lost my trust.

In eighth grade, my nephews came into my life. They made it absolute hell. I love the little fellas like my own, but I’d have been one-hundred and fifty percent better off without them.

Raising children at the ripe age of fourteen isn’t exactly what I’d call amusing, sweet, or anything in-between; it’s more like riding the Titanic and crashing down within a split second — that’s kind of what happened to my life. I know babies don’t seem like that big of a problem, but believe me, they are. I didn’t have to provide anything for, like buying diapers, formula, and baby clothes.

However, I did have to feed them, change them, and clothe them. They were mine. I lost my ability to hang out with friends, go out to ballgames, and spend time with my family.

I lost my freedom.

It’s now my senior year, and I feel way worthless than ever. I’m struggling my way through life—college, relationship, home-life, friends, etc. It seems as if everything has bombarded onto me all at once.

I feel like I’m going to live life struggling and I’m not going to make it. Honestly, my life goal is just to get away from here. That’s the only reason I’ve ever tried. I know that if I hadn’t lost my sissy in November of 1999, then I’d be on my way to somewhere better.

I wouldn’t look back –– because of Tierra. She would be my faith, my trust, and my guidance. She would help me navigate my way through life. That’s what twins do, they help each other in the beginning, the end, and everything in-between.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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