

I have an Irish Twin. I do not remember a minute of my life without him, and my very first memory is of him. And of me panicking that he was going to get hurt. Over the years we have both spent a fair amount of time driving each other crazy, and also protecting each other. Siblings know exactly which buttons to push, but we also know when we see someone else push those buttons on our siblings, and jump to the defence. My brother and I are like chalk and cheese – he is fun-loving and quick to make friends, while being the biggest devil’s advocate in the world; I am anxious and don’t want to impose on people by calling them my friend too soon, and have had to learn that it’s ok to share my opinions, even if they are not generally agreed upon. My brother had a semicolon tattooed to his forearm so that I would never feel alone in my mental health struggles. My brother showed up with a “fuck cancer” cake the night my husband was diagnosed. When I look at my life, my brother has always been there, driving me nuts, protecting me, challenging me, rescuing me from Shredder, and being quick to chuckle.
I have an Irish twin, and I am so grateful that my mom taught us to be friends, because as an adult, it’s nice to have him as my friend.
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