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Hayley: A Hero
If you had to describe the noun "hero" in one word, it would be "Hayley," no doubt about it.
Hayley is not only a sister to me, but a mentor as well. Though she is a measly twelve minutes older than me, it is as if she has twelve years of knowledge more than I do.
Our family has had more than our fair share of difficult times, and Hayley has been with me, our arms locked, towing me through, like the time I didn't move out of the road and she rescued be from a car. Our family has been, let's say, "broken" for a time, and I was the first one to break out the trusty old duct tape to attempt to fix it. Though my efforts were fruitless, I kept trying to mend, failing, then trying again, then repeat. It was not my job, though, to sew up the wound, and I got tangled up in the sticky web of depression. I grew up too fast, trying to be strong for my family in turmiol, when, in reality, the true me was breaking down bit by bit.
I started seeing a theripist, and a sliver of me came back, but I still tried to fufill the role of strength I masked myself in. Both my doctor and my mother told me, "You're thirteen; be a kid!"
The truth hit me hard when I had the realization that it wasn't my burden to mend this broken family, and the dismal discovery that the roll of duct tape did virtually nothing was a crippling blow to the gut. So I sulked in the corner, telling myself, "Comfort is bad. Take care of yourself. Don't give help, don't get it."
Then Hayley, though she had no idea of the extreme magnitude of ditress I was in, taught me how to be a kid again, even if she had and still has the maturity level of a responsilbe adult. Instead of me just throwing on a smiling faÃ§ade, my beloved twin reinstated that grin that was once in my heart.
I once again beamed with joy as I, (the supposed mender,) was actually being mended.
But then my grandmother, who lived with our family before I was born, passed away after a prosperous life of eighty-five years. This time my family needed me; not to fix them but to provide solace. I still, though, had that dark thought of "comfort is bad" looming in my mind. So I shunned giving, or getting, for that matter, consolation, as I did to any outward show of emotion.
My mother said I needed help. She wanted my sister and I to go to a greif counselor. Hayley excepted the offer, but I refused, saying I was fine, while, in reality, the sinister pall that once lingered over me lurked in the horizons again.
Was Hayley going to let me be depressed again? Hell, no! She grieved in front of me, as if she was telling me, "Comfort is good! I need some help, 'sis!" Of course, I could not deny my twin solace. And that helped me with my emotions.
Though the period for showing feelings was a short one, it was there, and I am still distraught about my loss, like anyone. But I got through. My sister, who can sometimes be a little bossy, coached me through this dilema and yelled, "C'mon, Aubs! Do it for you! Do it for me! You can do it!"
I never thought it would be possible for me to admire and adore my twin more than I did before these issues. But we are now closer than ever, more like the bond of fourty coats of Crazy Glue rather than the flimsy grip of silly, old duct tape. Our family is healing as well, even without that useless adhesive I used to use. This new grasp will be stronger. Like I am.
Is it a coincidence that the name "Hayley" actually means "hero"? Who knows? But I do know that, without her words "I love you" every night, I wouldn't be able to sleep as soundly as I do.