My brother and I were born in the same hospital, on the same day at practically the same time. We were raised in the same home, loved by the same parents and held to the same standards. While much of our lives consisted of similar aspects, our personalities are vastly different.
Where I like to keep conflict to a minimum, his rebellious nature gets him into a lot of trouble. I’m peaceable and cooperative (but not perfect, mind you); he’s independent, stubborn and short tempered.
There’s another difference that we have -- I have near-perfect vision; he can’t see.
My brother is legally blind. He was born with optic nerve hypoplasia, which means that the optic nerves in his eyes are underdeveloped, which results in severe -- but not complete -- vision loss. No prescription can make his vision better; it is incurable.
Because of his condition, my brother was always angry when we were younger. He caused a lot of friction in our home; he constantly fought and yelled, slammed doors and was verbally abusive. We’re friends now, but I used to be mad at him because of the tear he caused in my family.
The more I think about the past the more I realize that, back then, I was the blind one. His life was one of fear and uncertainty, but I never knew.
I know now because he taught me how to see.
Because of him, I can see pain, anger and fear in their many forms. I finally know why he always fought. He fought because he was grasping for some small shred of control. He couldn’t make his vision any better, even though he wanted to. I never considered that he was angry because he couldn’t drive or that he was afraid of hiking because he couldn’t see the rocks on the path. He was afraid of the obscure objects that wouldn’t focus clearly, he was embarrassed because he couldn’t recognize faces and he was angry because he was deprived of something that so many people take for granted. Wouldn’t you be?
Because of him, I can see that we can never fully love a person until we understand them. I didn’t understand him. I never thought about what life would look like through his eyes or how he felt about his condition. I couldn’t possibly walk in his shoes, but I certainly could have tried to understand what he was going through. My brother taught me that there’s always an underlying factor that contributes to a person’s behavior and if you love someone, you’ll seek to find out what it is.
Because of him, I can see that differences give relationships value. My brother can tell you everything about cars, he can shred a guitar and somehow he makes people at nursing homes fall in love with him. I can do none of those things. Our differences used to drive us apart, but now that my perspective has changed, I appreciate and love him even more because of them.
Because of him, I can see what a family should look like. I fought against my brother, but family is supposed to fight for each other. It took me a long time to figure out that you don’t just give up on relationships because they’re hard. Without my brother I would never have developed persistence and I would have never known how rewarding a restored family can be.
I was blind, but now I see -- and you can, too. If someone you love is angry, find out why. If they act differently than you, try to value those differences. If your family is dysfunctional, fight to make it whole. Finally, if you are struggling with loving someone, try seeing the world through their eyes.
