The sibling story I keep telling in comedy sets, but the actual story never gets told
Rick was born when I was 3 and didn't talk until he was 5. Once he did, I was the only one who could understand him — I translated for him with our parents, teachers, psychologists, other children. I've used this as a bit in a comedy routine, because there's something absurd about being a child's UN interpreter. It wasn't always funny living it. If he wanted to say something I found embarrassing, I'd disappear until the moment passed. I also had the power to change how the world saw him — I'd swap his words for bigger ones, same meaning, so people would think more of him.
I knew by the time I was 5 that taking care of him, life-long, was my job. Not a chore list — my actual work and play.
I'm a published author. I have never once written about any of this, even though I've tried, over and over. I always know what people want: the triumph-over-adversity, happily-ever-after version. They do not want my story.
I'm also a mental health provider now, currently prepping a talk for therapists on Glass Children — using a couple of "safe" stories — not the real story I've spent my life not telling.
There's a lot more — his medical reality, the years death felt like it was always nearby, what happened when he lived in my home with my own husband and kids, how our much older siblings still don't know my true story. Those are each topics is their own story. This is just the first one.
Curious how this lands for others — did comedy or humor ever become how you processed any of this? Or did you find another way to carry it?