I once found a glass unicorn when cleaning the house, and mom let me keep it.
my grandma, years later, gifted me a golden and powerful glass dragon.
I placed them both on my bookcase, and polished them occasionally.
I love my glass mythicals
Their only task was to be beautiful.
To be gazed upon, and honored for their perfection, and flawlessness.
Glass ornaments never got in the way.
‘Awww you\'re a glass child’ A coworker once said to me.
‘A glass child?’ I’d asked. I’ve heard of golden children, devil children, and angel children, but never glass children.
They sounded fragile… breakable… see through…
‘Naw it’s not like that. It\'s a child who wasn’t given as much attention because of their sibling’s disability.’
I felt a sharp pain in my stomach
A shard of glass remaining.
When I looked at my glass mythicals, I realized how vain they were.
They were extremely beautiful, and fragile.
Breakable.
They didn’t need attention.
They were there to exist.
To be looked at when needed, and seen through when necessary.
Childhood was a bookshelf I sat upon.
I love my brother.
We’re two years, and two months apart in age.
But when we were younger, I’d sit beside him and feel myself become cracking glass and him become the chisel.
Growing up, I was aware that my world revolves around the son, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
My brother was a big bad wolf with an insatiable appetite for conversation. He couldn’t help himself but to cut in even when I finally had a turn.
My parents told me it’s part of his disability.
That we just have to accommodate, as there is no cure for being a Big Bad Wolf.
My vocal chords became shattering glass rods, ready to break under the tiniest amount of pressure.
I loved to sing, to play instruments, to take up room, but he hated anyone but himself making the noise.
My insides slowly turned to cracked glass.
Teachers at school told me He’s:
Different and… Special
And that I should love him all the same. That I should accommodate his quirks.
My face turned to glass, set in passiveness.
He’d have raging emotions, he’d be ecstatic and playful a second, but be annoyed and callous with me another moment.
And he always had to be right.
You’d think being around him was like walking on glass, but I was content, by age ten I was glass.
Glass was all I knew how to do.
One time cameramen came to our house to make a documentary on him.
They filmed mini segments with family members, to show how his disability impacted us.
They filmed me, told me I was special, and cut out my part in the end in favor of filming my special brother.
They can\'t see me anymore.
Why would they?
Every argument between us
My parents justified taking his side, as they knew I was easier to subdue, a forever calm glass child.
I felt myself grow transparent.
No longer sea glass formed by some rough waves, but now transparent glass formed by the spray of volcanoes on my skin.
Every ice cream flavor war ended in Rocky Road, not Strawberry.
Every conversation had to be on his three distinct topics.
Dinner could never be my favorites, chunky spaghetti, salad with tomatoes, or a fruit salad for dessert, as he would have a meltdown.
My mom became amazing at subduing me, I became amazing at not being seen.
At school, I hid from older kids, who made fun of me or even despised me for having the weird brother who always needed more attention.
Eventually they stopped seeing me.
Because I was glass.
I was ok with being glass. I was comfortable sitting in the background, mending my cracks with bandaids and attention placed on myself.
I learned to not be seen, to compartmentalize my thoughts on the matter, and attempt not to say anything in hopes he wouldn’t see me and blow my house down.
Blow my glass house down.
But, glass is fragile. It can only gain so many cracks before eventually:
It.
Explodes.
And when It did one day.
Suddenly all eyes were on the pile of shattered glass.