I...He...We Need You to Know

This may seem random to you, but it’s really not for me. There is a point. It's not just a story. But hopefully you'll like it for more than one reason. Please stick with me.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I was super excited about something, and my mind just kept going, and I've never felt the word "buzzing" applied so well. I went to bed at 11, and I knew by that point it must have been 12 at least. I knew I should be getting to sleep, but I was just too awake. Now that I've established the situation, I think I'll switch into present tense.

I hear Asher cry out, just once, just a little. A moment of silence. Now it's turned into one of those long cries that I don't see coming to an end any time soon. I hope my mom wakes up and gets him. I remember how hard it was being in his position.

To my relief, she does. She gets him, and I hear her take him back to her own bed. And he keeps crying. I hear them go into the bathroom, and I hear her patience draining as she asks him over and over what is wrong. He continues to cry as I imagine it's a stomach ache-that was (is, actually) my usual ailment-and he's stuck standing in there when I'm sure he wants to just be lying in bed.

My mother becomes exasperated and says if he'd just tell her what was the matter, she would help him. She wants to help him. He just keeps crying, and I feel that pang of panic that only lives in childhood, a fear that can hardly be described, but I'm going to try. I have to try. I'm a writer, and it is my job to tell you stories, and make you feel things, and I feel this is an incredibly important thing for you to understand. In that moment, I'm not the 18-year-old that I've grown to become. I'm four year old me. I am four year old Asher.

You see, Asher-as I did before him-hears what she's saying. He does. It enters his mind, but he can't even think about telling her the problem. The problem is so obvious to him, that he expects her to know it. I'm not saying it's fair, or right, I'm not abdicating it, I know people aren't mind readers. I'm just telling you how it is. He can't tell her. He needs her to know.

This is how it is during the day as well, of course. But at night, as I assume you know, everything bad is magnified. Everything is so much worse at, say, one in the morning. It's not even really the night itself. It's not really the dark per say, it's not really what's in the dark. It's the feeling that you get during the night that doesn't really have anything to do with any of that.

Have you ever been laying in bed in the middle of the night, and thought you heard someone walking around, or just noises, and you're so afraid, and you don't want to check? Then you tell yourself oh, it was just the neighbors, or oh, it was just something outside, the noises your house naturally makes. For Asher, there is no rationalizing. He is paralyzed in fear, a heavy fear. A mind boggling fear that weighs on him and kind of shuts the rationalizing part of his brain off, and starts running through the bad things. He starts losing himself.

I lie in my bed for a few minutes, listening to Asher crying in my mom's room once again. He just wants his mom. He just wants to be cuddled. He needs her comfort. She is there, but she's impatient because he won't tell her what's the matter. I don't blame her, but I am Asher, and I know what he needs.

Then, almost unconsciously, I've decided I need to help him. I need to do for him what I needed to be done for me. I am in the hallway, and then I am in my parents' room as my dad is leaving it. My mother says something about Asher waking us all up, is worried about him waking our neighbors. I am not. I am him.

I crawl into bed, and I stroke his hair. I whisper that it's okay, and I know. I know exactly how he feels, but I also know there is really no way to make him realize that, no way to use that as comfort to him. He keeps crying, and I keep stroking. He just wants mom, I tell myself.

I whisper in his ear, ask him if his belly hurts, I ask him if he had a bad dream. He doesn't answer. It doesn't matter. I ask him, "What's the matter?" and he turns to my mom, reaching out, but then rolling back to face me again.

"You want mom," I state, which as I've told you, I knew all along. He is glad I know, though. That I acknowledge it.

Slowly but surely, he begins to calm down, but still cries.

My other brother, who isn't like us, comes in clapping. He congratulates Asher on waking him up.

"You don't know," I want to tell him. "You don't know what it's like."

But I say nothing to him, instead whispering to Asher again. We cuddle a little closer together, and I know that he wants me near. He wants me to be there. He moves my hands away, only allowing one in his hair, not on his side, too, and I know it's because he wants me, but at the same time, he doesn't really know what he wants. I am patient with him, I wait for him to be patient with me again. The next moment he lets me put my hand back on him, but removes the one in his hair. I'm finally able to pat his side, and he finally seems to be falling asleep.

He's silent for a moment, then starts up again. He does this so many times, I start to laugh, mostly because of how much tension I feel, how much pressure, how much emotion. I need to let it out somehow, and short, bubbly spurts of laughter is the thing I see as the best option.

He finally falls asleep, I think, and become sure when I whisper it to the room and he stays silent. I move, and he seems to wake up. I freeze, and try again in a moment. I can't leave him when he is like this. I have to make sure he will stay asleep. I'm successful.

"Thank you, Jules," my mother says.

I don't even remember if I so much as mumbled an "mhm", because the truth is, I didn't do it for her, I didn't do it for my dad who was waiting to get back into his bed, I didn't do it for my brother who had school in the morning, I didn't do it for the defenseless neighbors. I did it for Asher. And I did it for me.

I wonder if that is selfish of me as I head back into my room. And then I lay in my bed, and I begin to sob.

Being Asher's big sister has been hard for me, in this way and others. I feel like Asher and I need you to know this, but I couldn't say it when I was his age, and I know he can't say it now. I told my mother this morning a little of how I remember feeling, presenting it gently, telling her I just wanted her to know, because, as she has always told me, she never knew what to do for me. Now I can express it, and now, maybe I can help Asher. The child in me hurts, but the adult in me feels a little proud. So I'm doing it for him, for me, for us, for anyone who reads this.

I...He...We need you to be patient with us, even when we can't tell you what's wrong and we're pushing you away. Especially then.