Middle Child Syndrome

When I was 4 1/2 years old, as abrupt as a spanking, my once reliable mother brought home a hospital surprise with an alien face and a blood-darkened eerie belly clip that was to suddenly fall off one day. Soon I became much uglier than this. Inquisitively, I asked my parents if I could hold this strange creature. Their response was, "Be careful. She's heavy. Don't drop her." For fear of failure, I hesitated and retracted my request. My six year old sister readily adored this kicking, screaming Cabbage Patch Doll addition. Our playtime together was snatched by drool-soaked fingers. Photographs encompassed my older sister holding her and, how fitting, my half cut off face. "She's so cute," a hypnotized choir would resound with praises never meant for my ears. My mom would often hold the little Leach up to her breasts, where this alien lifeform would suck the heart juice out of her so that no love was left for me. At nighttime, my older sister would hastily leave me alone in our bedroom for the desire to sleep with the rest of the family. Abandoned with cannonballs of tears and a spasmodic chest, I trembled with one agonizing question, "Why did they hate me?" Terrorized by sinister shadows, I wondered if Hades should have me. My amiable older sister readily made friends with strangers, a favorite of the neighbors. I'd solemnly tread along behind them, silently sulking my excluded self, head to the ground, forgetting my surroundings, save for the dirt that bore my reflection. In shame of my existence, I shunned others' faces, believing that if I couldn't see them then they couldn't see me. Their unresponsiveness affirmed this. Ghosted by society, I instead bonded with objects. Popples were my first favorite, so huggable and foldable into their own hiding spot. We had this in common, and my Popple embraced me with the affection that my mom had forfeited. Next, Barbies became my role models. Aware that my hair wasn't blond and my eyes weren't blue, and realizing my inability to change that, I wondered if God had rejected me too. I soon conceded that I wasn't meant to be cute or adored. Withheld of a child's worth, I surrendered in acceptance of my perceived absence, preferring my own attentive company. I became too timid to be known, save by the controllable objects of clinging pen and paper.