Nothing can make you happier that a comfortable, close relationship with a sister, but unfortunately, for many women that pleasure is hard to find. Too often women have complex or even contorted bonds that with female relative who shares their genes and jealousies. My friend, Meryl, is in regular contact with her sister, Joni, but she is also aware that Joni is very jealous of her. That jealousy causes Joni to want to knock Meryl down a peg, but Joni would never dare come right out and say something openly critical.Instead, she masks her jealousy-fueled disapproval by using subtext; she finds fault with Meryl's children or husband in the guise of being helpful. It's an indirect way of being critical that appears legitimate.
So when Joni is helpfully suggesting that she can find a good financial advisor for Meryl's husband, Bob, because she knows that he's way too busy to make his own investments, the subtext is that Bob is not to be trusted with money because everyone knows he's irresponsible. Joni knows exactly what subtle comment will get to Meryl,but should Meryl get defensive about the tone of her sister's suggestion, Joni can always open her eyes wide and innocently say, "Hey, what are you getting so upset about? I was only trying to help!Sisters know which buttons to push in order to make the other feel guilty. Even between sisters like Joni and Meryl who are not in outright conflict, hidden messages tailored to get a desired effect may be sent. One woman in the study that lead to my book, My Sister,My Self said: "My sister could always twist my words and get away with being mean-spirited. I still feel intimidated by her and when she decides to throw me the bait, I usually bite!"
Biting the bait, having their buttons pushed, being subjected to subtext--these sisters get manipulated intounctions in my relationship with my own sister. When Nikki says: You should stay at my apartment and not at your friend's when you come to New York; I'm your sister!, she is trying to get me to do what she wants me to do, not because I want it, but because, if I didn't, I'd feel guilty. She may not even be conscious of the maneuver she has executed because she is more focused on getting her own needs met than on understanding mine.
I used to occasionally succumb to her requests for her sake. Her technique sometimes worked well and I would do things just because she seemed to want it so badly. But, at the same time, it also pushed me away. Rather than encouraging me to want to stay at her apartment on my next visit, her words would make me feel bad, as I did after almost every interaction I would have with her. The sub-text that she was actually sending was, "You're neglecting poor me. You should give me more!" I always feel guilty when I hear that message from her--stated or unstated--and it makes me want to get away from her to protect myself from that bad feeling. That's the dissonance between what she wants me to do and what I want to do. The underlying message is that I owe it to her just because we are sisters. I might want to spend more time with her and like her a whole lot more if she wasn't constantly trying to get me to do what she wants me to do through guilt.When a sister's words pack a p unch, it becomes hard to think objectively about what is actually going on. Here are some buttons that, when pushed, are guaranteed to make a vulnerable woman feel bad:
Each woman has her special buttons that are sure to get to her, and bing! bing! bing! bing! bing! She inevitably responds when they're pressed because she's been conditioned, like one of Pavlov's dogs. She reacts with a surge of emotion--anger, guilt, hurt, frustration--making it impossible to think straight. By giving her sister the key to the button cupboard, she enters into the game.The question is, how can someone learn to disconnect the circuitry, so that her sister can push all the buttons she likes, but the response is just not there? The first step is to take the time to think the whole thing through. What exactly are those things your sister says that get to you? How do you typically respond? Once you have put a name to the game and you start to be able to step outside the emotion and recognize what's happening, you will be far more likely to be able to short-circuit it.To be fair, each of us also has the key to our sister's button cupboard and we, also, know how to get to her. If we are going to be honest about our relationship, we need to think about what our sister's sore points are and how we take advantage of them. What do you do to get a rise out of her? How does she usually respond to you? It's a fluid, dynamic interaction that goes both ways.
I was 14 the first time someone called me a bitch. We were at that age of constantly shifting alliances, and I had just learned that my best friend had revealed some of my most intimate secrets. Her betrayal hurt, and I knew there was no way I could let that kind of break in trust slide. My dignity was at stake. Too bad I wasn't very good at confrontation. The more I hemmed and hawed, the more she denied any wrong-doing, and the more frustrated I felt. We were standing near some lockers, and in my fury, I kicked one. "I know it was you, you stuck-up liar, so stop denying it!" I barked.Other kids stopped whatever they were doing to gawk. Never one to lose face, my former friend flipped her Farrah Fawcett hair over her shoulder."Bitch," she said in that icy tone of teenaged girls everywhere.The whole school knowing who I had a crush on was nothing compared to the confusion and upheaval that one little word had unleashed. A bitch? Me? How dare she stand there and pass out bla me when I was the one who had been wronged.I was so upset, I confided in a trusted teacher. "Good for you," she said. "Every woman needs an inner bitch." Comforted by her light remark, I smiled a little. "It's true," she said. "Every woman needs to know her bottom line." My teacher's words reminded me of a genuine bitch I knew who never thought twice about barking. Of course, she had an advantage.
She was a dog.Dido was a pure black Labrador with the gentle nature that makes the breed so popular. Her tail wagged incessantly: whenever she approached the coffee table, she'd sweep cups, glasses, and candlesticks onto the floor like some crazed canine housekeeper. She also had a maternal streak. I once brought a stray kitten home, a raggedy speck of a thing, and Dido took her under her wing. They slept curled together, the kitten nestled against Dido's neck. Dido even tried to nurse the kitten, which totally did my head in. Until then, I had always been the focus of Dido's nurturing. When I was sad or down, she'd lumber over and sit near me. When I was in a good mood, she'd find a ball or a stick and engage me in play. She sensed my emotions like a four-legged mood ring.No adult understood me as well as she did, and I unprepared the first time she went into heat. The only precaution my father took before sending me out to walk her was to put her on a leash. I took the l eash and set off, oblivious to the power of the hormonal come-on Dido was broadcasting throughout the neighborhood. I walked down the sloping roads of our neighborhood with her ambling along beside me. Suddenly, a giant German shepherd shot out of a yard and lunged straight for us, his vicious growl meaning business.I did what any healthy eight-year-old would do: I dropped the leash and ran, convinced it was me he was after. But he ignored me and stopped dead in front of Dido. Every fiber of his being was focused on her. My sweet, loving dog was about to be torn to shreds by a lethal wolf, and all I could do was stand by, mute and helpless, and witness the bloodbath.
The fur on the back of Dido's neck stood on edge. A rumble, steady and serious, rose from deep within her belly. Her smile had vanished, and in its place I saw only teeth. With lightening-quick reflexes she sat down, protecting her hind quarters. Her ears pinned to herskull, she let out a single bark, an unequivocal NO! that was so fierce and powerful it sent the wolf scrambling back up the hill.Just like that, my Buddha-Dog had morphed into a hound of hell.And then, just as quickly, she morphed back. Acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, she grinned at me as if to say, "Danger's over. Let's move on."I stared at her with more than just a touch of trepidation. Was she kidding? I mean, who was I dealing with? Dido, who ran from the vacuum cleaner, hid at the sound of firecrackers, and allowed my mother to fit her with an old pair of flower panties she'd transformed into a maxi-pad with a tail hole? Or Kujo, who had somehow invaded Dido's body and was waiting to rip my guts out? Dido wagged her tail and did that shuffle dogsdo when they want you to walk .
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