I was fine. I am fine. I will be fine.
Fine is a word I have unfortunately become familiar with throughout my life, and I hope no other person comes to know the word fine the way I know it.

I was fine when I was born as the younger sibling to a sister who suffered from bleeding ears, alcoholism, and thoughts of suicide.
I am fine as the younger sibling with eating disorders, depression, and thoughts of suicide.
And I will be fine as the younger sibling, frightened beyond belief, who enters the lonely and soul consuming world of medicine.

I have accepted that I need to be the child who is fine, and I am okay with that.
I’m not angry. I’m not sad. I’m not scared. I’m not disappointed. I’m not heartbroken.
I’m fine.

There are times when I wonder about an alternate life.
A life where I can celebrate my own accomplishments for more than a minute without you uttering those disheartening words, “I wonder what Veronica will think when she finds out? I wonder if she’ll be upset?”
A life where I don’t have to keep up the façade of ice so Veronica can continue to be fire.
A life where I can tell you that I’m on antidepressants and not have overwhelming guilt for making you worry about your other child.
A life where I am not plagued by thoughts of self-doubt and suffocating pressure to succeed so you can have one of your dreams come true.
I wonder about a life as an only child, and the extra love and attention I would receive. How I would bask in it and never take it for granted.
But as I said, I only wonder. Because that life will never be reality.

It’s sad that I can’t have my own moments.
It’s sad that Veronica doesn’t support me, even though I have always supported and defended her, even to you.
And it’s sad that my own nephew is destined for my same fate with his own older sister.
But sadness is not an emotion I have the luxury of feeling.

So as I sit here and write this entry, I slowly close the box on these thoughts and sentiments, and go back to being fine.

I’ve learned to deal with my own problems, thoughts, and feelings.
I’ve learned to control my hurt with deep breaths and tightened fists.
And I've learned to save my tears for the quiet nights on my pillow and the long showers in my bathroom.

Because although I have become the glass child, I am tougher than brass.

So you can focus on Veronica, mom.
You can worry and fight and cry and laugh and love with her.
And I will continue to do all those things as well, just without you.
And I will be fine.