You Were Molested Having a sister is like having a best friend who hates you. She shares your parents, shares your clothes, shares your secrets (with her entire circle of friends), and secretly wishes you were twins so that she could have absorbed you in the womb. My sister and I were born sixteen months apart, and from the earliest time I can remember, we have struggled to differentiate ourselves. This often proved difficult when my mom was busy giving us the exact same middle name or having my sister’s tooth pulled so we could be in braces together. Of course, all of it had less to do with my mom’s wanting us to be connected and more to do with what was convenient for her. But as a result, Amanda and I have always harbored a small, misguided resentment toward each other that is obviously my mom’s fault. In grade school, I carved out a space for myself as the “overachieving people-pleaser,” leaving Amanda no choice but to become the “hot-tempered rebel without a cause.” I won the science fair with my herbal Prozac for dogs, while she got suspended for trying to burn down the science room.
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