I Have Oldest Sibling Syndrome

Therapy TikTok

For those of you on TikTok, and especially those of you that have stumbled into the healing space of Therapy TikTok, there exists a running joke: did you hoard stickers, or were you a well-adjusted child?

The joke splits humans into two categories.

The first: anxious individuals too intimidated by the permanence, too indecisive to choose a surface for their stickers, resulting in an ever-increasing sticker hoard.

The second: relaxed individuals who took joy in peeling the backing, sticking it anywhere that brought them joy in the moment, with little thought of the future.

Oldest Sibling Syndrome

I think we can apply TikTok's sticker theory to sibling dynamics as well. I am the oldest child. I always think I'm right. I definitely have oldest sibling syndrome. I've been around longer, I know best, and I enjoyed letting my little sister know that it was my way or the highway when we were children. Sometimes I still catch myself in this mindset.

But, as together as I liked to seem, I was also a child living with a rampant undiagnosed anxiety disorder. Between feeling a responsibility to be her role model, and a model child for the family at large, I found I could do hard things like get strait A's but I couldn't do simple things like peel the frigging backing off of a sticker.

You can probably tell (by my self-professed presence on the therapy side of TikTok) that I was a sticker hoarder, among other things.

Collections of mason jars filled with buttons, vases of shells, rocks and fossils. Envelopes of feathers. Even the occasional animal bone. Finding something beautiful in the wild and putting it safely in a curated space soothed my anxious soul as a child.

It's still a habit I indulge in today. I call it my goblin brain, but I've heard it referred to as a dragon's hoard. In reality, it's a coping mechanism for living in a chaotic world.

My younger sister, Megan, did not have the same familial expectations placed on her. Not to say she didn't have expectations placed on her--she did, but I also felt like she got away with murder. In fact, I distinctly remember having a strict 11 pm curfew throughout high school, and being extremely confused when Meg didn't have one when she reached the same age.

It's a trope, really: the oldest child is often treated like a mold for perfection, then the youngest child comes along and breaks the mold to create something that works better for them. But it's a trope because it's so common.

Meg, bless her, covered notebooks, binders, and walls with stickers. I didn't envy the lack of curfew, but I did envy the nonchalance with which she could place those decals anywhere, and somehow make it looked curated.

Big Sister, Little Sister

Meg has her own version of a hoard, but it's born from an artist's mind, not a goblin brain. It's a habit left over from her BFA Program, where she would keep odds and ends "just in case" she needed it for a future project or installation. I love going through her studio space and wondering what use she would have for a spare bead or the slowly drying remnants of a tube of oil paint an obscure shade of blue.

Mostly, I just love the idea that one day I might see that bit of blue on a canvas, or the bead dangling from her latest jeweled creation. I'm fascinated by discovering how her mind works.

Her hoarding is practical in nature, mine is largely an expression of anxiety.

My sister is, among many things: my best friend, family, and in many ways, complete opposite.

I stand five foot three with red-blonde hair, grey eyes, and a muscled frame--things left over from our Scottish ancestors. She stands 6 foot even with dark ash hair, hazel eyes and cheek bones that could cut a man in two--things inherited from our mother's first nations ancestry.

I can't draw a stick person to save my life, preferring pictures painted in words. She detests the slog of research and writing, but breaths life into images with most mediums-- paint, pencil, clay, or an I-Pad.

My temper flashes quick and fast as lightning--here and then gone, damage in its wake. Hers smolders and burns like a forest fire--it will take days, weeks, months to extinguish.

For all our differences, we have much in common, too. Our desire to hold space for one another, to allow our fears and worries to be expressed judgement free. Our uncanny ability to know, in a near-psychic way, when one needs to talk to the other. Our frustrating proclivity to cause any and all technology to freeze and crash the moment we really need to use it.

And I can't forget our endlessly dark humor. Inside jokes too bleak, too triggering for this space, but endlessly hilarious to us, nonetheless. The motto: if you can't laugh about it, you'll cry. Besides, laughing is more fun.

Family Bonding Activities

Last summer we were on our annual family cottage trip. Her kids (two toddlers), a pair of odd sisters, and a questionable mini van made the 6-hour journey north into, and then past cottage country to a place far more wild.

I drove, she played DJ. It was bliss.

It was also the last time we were all going to be together at our family cottage before it sold. So, as you can imagine, the vacation--although needed, wanted, and exciting--was also tinged with a melancholy finality that we all tried to ignore until departure day.

When we got there, unpacked, and got the kids settled, Meg surprised me.

"Hey, I got something for you," she said, clutching a small package to her chest and gesturing me into the living room.

"What?!" I scanned my internal calendar, worried I had missed an event we usually marked with a gift exchange. I couldn't think of anything. We had our solstice celebration the month prior, her silver rings still sat on my fingers. My wedding anniversary was over a month away, her birthday not until winter. I was at a loss. "Meg, you didn't have to do that!"

"No, I just saw this and I had to get it for you. You've had a hard year."

It was true. My husband and I were in the midst of fertility appointments, and I was still healing from a recent miscarriage.

My throat got a little thick. "Well whatever it is, that's really nice of you."

She handed me the package. I opened it and a key chain uterus sprouting flowers tumbled into my palm. I laughed, already loving the raised eyebrows and reddened cheeks it would illicit. "Meg this is great!"

She beamed, "Well I figure...since you and I both have shitty uteruses, at least you can have a pretty one." She struggles with endometriosis and post c-section complications. I have PCOS and a history of infertility and pregnancy loss. What a pair.

"There's more!" She urged me to keep going. I sifted through the tissue paper until I found them: two beautifully printed vinyl stickers. One a large scythe with "Slay All Day" sprawled under the curved blade. The other a happy green dumpster, on fire.

"Is this..."

"Yeah. It's a fucking dumpster fire."

I howled so hard I think I pulled a vocal cord.

"Megan this is AMAZING!" I screamed as loudly as I could without waking two toddlers in an uninsulated, 120-year-old cabin.

"Ya!" She was grinning now. "But there are rules."

I didn't understand.

"What do you mean?"

Her grin turned feral. "You have to stick them to something."

Anxiety Attack

Damnit, she remembered my sticker hoard. I cleared my throat. "Oh, I will."

"No, right now." An evil glint entered her hazel eyes. "Or I'm taking them away from you." My jaw dropped open.

"You can't take back a gift, Megan," I screeched. I was already anxious at the idea of having to peel the back off, of needing to find a surface to commit them to for posterity. If I wasn't careful, I would have an anxiety attack.

The tell-tale anxiety attack symptoms were already manifesting: racing thoughts, elevated rapid breathing, adrenaline shakes, a slick of sweat spreading from the crown of my head and sliding down my spine.

"I can and I will," she held out her hand. "Stick them to something or give them back." I clutched them closer. I really, really, wanted these, my goblin brain screeching at me to put them somewhere safe, somewhere hidden, only to be used when you find the perfect surface. She wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand, a smirk playing on her lips.

The want eventually won over the anxiety. Movement usually helped burn off the adrenaline, so I gave in with an exasperated "FINE," and marched toward my duffle bag.

The only worthy surface I could think of was my Kindle.

I love my E-Reader. I treat it with a respect usually reserved for vintage wine or Faberge eggs. It's waterproof, encased in a shockproof case, and its screen is lovingly wiped down after use with a soft cloth that I don't even use on my eyeglasses.

It was also the only thing I had on me large enough to host sizeable vinyl stickers. Plus, I rationalized to myself as I pulled it out of my bag and stalked back to the living room, it's newer and I'll likely have this version for several years...hopefully.

My last e-reader had served me a decade before the software was made redundant. That's about as permanent as technology gets these days.

I stood before her, exasperated, and flushed. "I hate you."

Immersion Therapy

She gave a little victory dance in her seat. "Oh, you're going to thank me." Then she started to chant: "Do it, do it, do it...." She didn't let up, her intensity increasing as I peeled the backing off. Like ripping off a band-aid, I didn't let myself slow down, hoping it would hurt less if I did it quickly.

First, the scythe. I eyed a spot in the top right corner of the Kindle, Meg's incessant chant and fist pump egging me on. Finally, giving into peer pressure, I exhaled and roughly pressed the sticker into place. It was done.

"Yay!" She clapped her hands gleefully. Then, a new chant: "Dumpster! Dumpster! Dumpster!"

"Ahhhhhhhh," I screamed under my exhaled breath as I repeated the process, pressing its edges into the lower left quadrant. I felt antsy, sick, shaky.

"You did it!" I nodded weakly. "Cassy, I'm so proud of you!"

I managed a wan smile, genuinely surprised by how wrung out I felt by stickers, but Meg wasn't letting it go. "Dude, looooooook! They look so good!"

I glanced down at the Kindle. The stickers were smooth, hilarious and looked like they were meant to be on the Kindle. I was reminded of the first tattoo I got. How after the needling was done, I stared at it for hours, shocked it took me so long to realize it was always there. The artist just woke the skin up, shone a light on artwork I didn't know lived just beneath the surface.

The sick feelings dissipated, washed away by happy champagne bubbles that burst warmly in my chest. They really did look great.

They still do, a year later. As do their sister stickers I have added over the last 12 months.

How to Calm Anxiety and Heal Yourself

Meg helped me with a bizarre, abrasive sort of immersion therapy. As annoyed as I was at the time, it helped cure my sticker anxiety. Her (gently) forcing me to do the thing that made me uncomfortable showed me that it wasn't nearly as difficult, or as uncomfortable as I thought it would be.

And yes, I know it's stickers, which are not a barrier to living a full life. But, challenging this one thing, however small, has helped me become more comfortable in my daily life. It has helped me rediscover my inner child. It's helping me heal her by giving her permission to do the thing I always wanted to do, but was too afraid of messing up: I'm letting her cover her favorite things in stickers.

Months after the cottage, Megan and I attended a witch's night market to celebrate Samhain (Halloween).

As I threaded my way through the vendors, my eyes caught on a metallic rendition of flowers interwoven with a very specific part of the female anatomy (hint: it rhymes with flitoris). The artist had several variations, some on stickers. I bought one right away, and immediately placed it on my kindle when I got home.

Then comes a tattoo artist's flash artwork, the masculine sword underlining the female anatomy on my kindle; opposites co-existing in a shared space.

Tucked into an unexpected birthday card--a feminist tarot card, and a motto for empowered women.

My friend Hannah started her Etsy store. I could not resist, and bought my favorite ghost in uggs, clutching an iconic coffee.

And you know what? I used every single one.

Meg was right. Stickers are meant to be loved, shared, enjoyed. Not to sit in a shoe box for the rest of eternity. We just have to find the surface they were always meant to adorn, the object they will live their perfectly impermanent life on.

Mine bring me joy, every time I look down.

The bring me memories of midnight markets, summer sun, ends of eras. Glimpses of a chanting sister, sleep-mussed toddlers, birthday surprises and the accomplishments of my friends.

So, am I now considered well-adjusted? Hahahaha no, absolutely not. But I do get to revisit parts of my history every time I pick up my Kindle or close my laptop. That's way better than hiding them away in some dusty shoe box, waiting for the perfect spot to put them.

Because I've realized that spot just doesn't exist. All we have is the now, glimpses of where we've been and if we're really lucky--ideas about where we want to go.

Which makes the impermanence of it all beautiful. It makes it special.

And most importantly-- it's making my inner child very, very, happy.