Final Draft

The Axe

            I was outside in my luscious green backyard that my mom tended to every weekend. Being more of my mother’s child, I wanted to be like her, so I helped tend to our small backyard that Saturday. The sun was shining—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Palm trees placed on every side with the light shining through—the typical California picture. The lackluster, gray, classic tool shed stood up against the house atop the rocks next to the crisp mowed lawn. Located inside: a rake, multiple shovels (handheld ones and large heavy ones), a couple buckets, two saws, some plant food, and gardening gloves—all jumbled together. My mom had been cutting down trees and large leaves, so the axe and long leaf cutter were lying in the grass.

My brother joined us outside. Justin didn’t have a good look on his face. A look of frustration and annoyance took over. No smile, no light in his eyes, not even a cute scrunch of the nose. One I’d seen many times before.

Something my mother taught me since a young age was to always clean up after you make a mess, leaving it better than it was. I, being my mother’s “mini me” was doing exactly that when my brother came out and joined us. Trying to be kind I asked, “Justin, what’s wrong? Can I help you with anything.” No response. He just grunted over and over again. Trying to ignore the situation (which usually helped), I kept gathering the dead leaves and tossing them into the trashcan.

I swear this only happens in movies, but no. This was happening in real life before my very own wide opened eyes. His body bent over, his hand dropped to the ground, and his fingered griped the handle of the axe. Thoughts were racing through my head. What is he doing? Why is he picking that up? Should I run? As I said each word slowly, I was being backed into the fence. “Justin.” One step back. “Put.” One more step back. “That.” One more step back. “Down.” My hands were in front of me acting as my shield (like that would do anything) and my back finally hit the fence. I am going to die. What is going to happen to me? My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered winning my first horse show, bringing our first puppy home, and even that morning of cooking a delicious breakfast including cheesy eggs and perfectly burned bacon with my family. All I could think of to say, while tears were flowing down my face faster than Niagara Falls, was, “Justin, please stop. Please put that down. What are you doing?”

Mom walked around the corner and immediately grabbed the axe out of his hands. I ran inside, trying to get the farthest distance away from him. Running into my dad, I grabbed him tightly and told him that Justin just had an axe in his hand, pinning me to the fence. His response, “Oh.” 

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Why the hell was my dad’s response just “oh?” Shouldn’t he be nervous that his son had an axe in his hand pinning his daughter to the fence—almost to death? Why isn’t he being sympathetic to me crying my eyes out of fear?

Bipolar.

When I first heard this word, I (an adolescent) had no idea what it meant. After multiple anger outbreaks at home from my brother and multiple family meetings later, I understood how bipolar kids act. My childhood was filled with watching a screaming, high tempered brother who hit almost everything he touched. I was eighteen months younger than him but acted eighteen months older than him. It was my life and it was my story.

Slam.

His door would shut.

Screams from inside his room, “I hate everyone. It’s not my fault.”

Bang.

He punched the wall thinking he would get his anger out, but it only resulted in red, later black and blue, knuckles. I deemed myself the normal child, but it came with great responsibility. Patience; he didn't ever show me how to be patient as a little girl, but I had to be patient with him. Whether it be being patient for him to finish a tantrum, or being patient with him in his slow learning abilities, I had to be understanding of his condition and do all I could to help him. He taught me how to be caring when people (other than mom and dad) were watching. Nothing stopped him from opening the door for people to helping my grandma with anything and everything. Keep in mind though, this didn’t usually happen at home around my parents and I.  He usually treated us like scum. In his temper, he didn’t care what he was doing to us—we were his punching bag.

Through everything his disability had put me through, I still knew he loved me and he knew I loved him. Our childhood days consisted of playing on our five acre ranch; it was a place where boring wasn’t in the vocabulary. There was always something to do for us whether we were riding around on the golf cart until we got dizzy, fishing for crawdads in the murky creek that ran through the property, or even just playing with our puppy in the backyard.

            My life was like the shed—jumbled, with things that cut you down, but also help to fix you and cut off your dead ends. My brother was the jumbled in my life; his tantrums always were the downside to my day, but he was there to help me grow.

This was the point in time where my brother had taught me to count my blessings. He hadn’t taught me directly, but rather indirectly through his horrifying actions that afternoon. I had learned that growing up would have to be something that I would essentially have to do myself, as my parents’ attention would be stuck to my brother’s every action. I had never and still am not certain why I was given such a difficult sibling to live with, but I am certain it is for a reason. He is there to teach me lessons that no one else can, and I am here to teach him lessons he might never learn from anyone else. Although sometimes our hugs were forced, our love wasn’t. Brother and sister would always be there for each other.