My Sister Squids
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I think my sister wakes up just as cranky as I do. Which makes me so proud, but also sad. When we were younger, Sydney would stand at the toilet holding her protruding belly button as she tried her best to piss like her big brother. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The roles have since shifted. Now, I go to her with all my big existential questions. This explains why I’m intent on finishing both slow seasons of Virgin River, and why I’m giving country music a chance. Suffice to say, I now prefer to pee sitting down, just like Sydney.
When Sydney started talking as a toddler, she was dubbed “Squids,” which is a name that I like to tell people is a derivation of Squidward, as in Squidward Tentacles from Spongebob Squarepants who was profoundly and famously cranky. Hence, the name Squids. While I’m well aware that my nickname for Sydney is a textbook example of psychological projection, I continue to call her Squids, or Squidly, or Squilliam to this very day. As do many of the people who love my little sister.
Squids and I are like two sides of the same rare, misprinted eastern European coin. We’re both objectively odd, but odd in distinctly different ways. Squids is a fan of shouting, “cock” or “penis” or “dicks” in crowded restaurants while I love a good story about a eulogy gone bad. Sydney and I both struggle with severe anxiety that manifests itself physically in the form of “flop sweat” for me, and hives for Squids. But, Sydney doesn’t let her anxiety control her life like I let mine. She is less afraid of taking the proverbial first step than I am. I’ve let my fear of failure impede my ability to live in the moment, while Squids — although reluctantly — dives right into whatever new challenge she faces. Squids is now a production assistant at the Today Show.
This past weekend Sydney and I were both at my parents house, celebrating Thanksgiving and my birthday. I was crying for much of the time, as one does on their birthday when they’ve recently lost their job, their boyfriend and their unwavering belief in a future free of hate, self-destructive behavior and meaningless anxieties. My depression stinks like shit and Squids prefers her house to smell of Nest Grapefruit Diffuseur de Parfum. So, she texted me the following:
Okay don’t answer me if you don’t wanna. AND this is from me, not mom whatsoever lol….
You are doing SO fucking great and we are all so fucking proud of you.. BUT you are way too freakin’ hard on yourself when you don’t need to be. Let’s be real. I’m good at being your best critic, but I’m also your number one fan when I need to be. I don’t get how you still think you’re behind and/or embarrassed to be in school. 1- you lost your job in a global pandemic. 2- you should be in school for your FUCKING INCREDIBLE writing regardless of whether or not you needed an employer to lay you off. 3- you’re not in undergrad. You’re in grad school and you should be absolutely proud of that. I know I would be. You seriously gotta snap out of it. Count your blessings. Realize how much you’ve overcome and are still in the same (if not better) position than your peers. You’ll be able to buy yourself a car one day. Stop thinking about that now and be proud of yourself. I love you max.
So, you get it, Squids is truly fabulous. In the past, I’m guilty of having taken her fabulousness, my own fabulousness and all the fabulousness present in the world, for granted. Thankfully, I have Squids to help me snap the fuck out it. Which I’ve needed as of late because I’ve been in a bit of a funk.
The pandemic has been isolating and demoralizing. I spent one too many days alone in a dirty apartment in Greenpoint, watching Trump’s early coronavirus press conferences and rebutting his most outrageous assertions out loud. I’d be doing this as if someone would respond to one of my comments and admire how witty I had just been. Nobody ever answered back, in spite of how much weed I had been smoking. Squids has a boyfriend and a job, so her pandemic experience has been less lonely.
On the other hand, my loneliness serves as a constant reminder of the fact that I’m not very good company for myself. I feel like I’m being fucked out of my twenties, which I used to spend at concerts and various house and techno clubs mostly concentrated in East Williamsburg and Bushwick. As a testament to our fondness for late nights and shenanigans, my fellow Brooklyn club-rats (shoutout Jared, RJ, Sawyer, Adam, Disha and Henry) adopted the motto “it’s always early in Brooklyn.”
It’s always early in Brooklyn, meaning that It’s never too late to make a change of scenery at 4am. Just as it’s never too late to make a change in your life. And that’s important for me to remember. That’s important for me to remember as a graduate school student; as a big brother; and as a millennial.
In January, a kid that sat across from me in the newsroom at Cheddar, who seemed like my polar opposite, was hired to a job as an associate producer at a different company. A job that I was led to believe I was going to be offered. It was heartbreaking at the time. And then in April, I was laid off from Cheddar. All of that has led to many months of deep introspection, lots of therapy and my recent enrollment at the Craig Newmark Graduate School for Journalism.
With much of what used to make me feel young and full of hope having been taken away because of this fucking pandemic — I’m so thankful for my little sister because she reminds me that its always early in Brooklyn, and that it’s never too late to make a change.
Squids is always there to remind me that I’m fucking Max Adler. Which might sound like a really narcissistic mantra. When I told my therapist that I sometimes need to be reminded of the fact that I’m fucking Max Adler, he responded sarcastically saying, “wouldn’t it be great if everyone carried around a personalized card in their wallets that had, like, a picture with their face on it, their name, their age, their height…?” Ok Dr. L*****, I will look at my drivers license the next time I’m having a confidence crisis.
But, fuck him, cause sometimes I do need to be reminded of just how loved I am, and just how much potential the people who love me seem to think I have buried deep within. The pandemic has probably brought on similar confidence crises in other millenials. I don’t think what I am going through is particularly unique. And we can call that progress, because like other people who struggle with addiction, I often struggle with what people in AA call “terminal uniqueness.”
“Terminal uniqueness” is the belief that the situation a person is facing is somehow fundamentally different from the situations others have experienced. In other words, people with this condition believe that no one else has ever encountered what they are facing and therefore, no one can understand what they’re going through.
I’m here to serve as your surrogate little sister and cure you of any possible “terminal uniqueness.” Which is to say, I’m trying to give you all the same comforting sense of hope that my sister has imparted on me. I’m here saying that we’re all in this together. We all are feeling lonely and less sure of the future. You’re unique, but you suffer just like everyone else. You’re not special in that sense.
But It’s always early in Brooklyn. It’s never too late to make changes.
And, to Squids, “I love you more.”
