A short time ago, my wife and I went through the 18 months of my sister's life on Twitter.
It was disturbing. Not because my wife and I were combing through her life, but because of the content of what she had to say. And from the way she looked. Her smile was a farce. Her eyes, though brown, were black with a crushing emptiness.
This is not a happy girl. She’s a deeply depressed, emotionally ravaged child, beaten into submission.
While disturbing, it was also incredibly sad. My wife and I have talked about my mother’s treatment of my sister, but I suppose talking about it was different for me than actually seeing it. Analyzing my sister's tweets of the last 18 months with my wife turned those conversations into crystal clear pictures. My mother aimed for complete annihilation and she was successful, through and through. My sister is now a walking, talking mass of chemical reactions. Much like I was turning into.
It was pretty obvious that my sister was either on or had access to prescription drugs. I was only mildly surprised at this, but that’s due in part to the image of my sister I have in my head: she’s still my “little sister”, and that idea was jammed into my head for a hell of a long time. Right away, I theorized that she may attempt an OD on something like prescriptions sleeping pills. Probably not to sucessfully commit suicide, that's too final. But it would be a cry for help. A desparate, piercing, gutteral cry for help.
It’s the way I would have done it.
Just close your eyes and never open them again. Life, just an afterthought.
Then again, she may be too enmeshed with our mother to attempt something like that but either way, I won’t be surprised if I got some form of communication with the message that my sister is either dead, or close to being dead, or tried to be dead. She wants to emulate Marilyn Monroe anyway.
I knew I was distant from her, knew it when we lived in the same house, and it would have been around this time that we would have been able to connect on something more than just goofing around as siblings – nine years difference is significant.
She never reached out to me, always expected me to take that first step. Even if I had contacted her once a week, or tried to, she wouldn’t have reciprocated. As the “father figure” I have certain responsibilities, she thinks! What she needs is to get away from our mother which as it looks now, won’t happen. Whatever minimal laurels she rested on in high school just wasn’t enough in college. College is not (entirely) one big extended high school party. She’s back again, attached to an abandoning mother’s hip.
Unfortunately, I still worry some for my sister. I know she needs help but I can’t be the one to provide it for her. She needs professional help, and that’s the advice I would offer, callous as that may sound. Find a therapist, a good one, I’d say. Lay yourself out there. I can’t be your therapist, but I can be your brother. She’s been spoon-fed exactly how she should feel about “what happened” when “I walked out” and “ruined the family”. Perhaps there’s a chance for her to come into herself and notice that the way she’s been living has been killing her, but that’s unlikely.
I think she’ll turn deeper into alcohol and drugs. I think she’ll have a baby, either intentionally or not. I think she’ll live with her mother or as close as possible for the rest of her life, unless my mother decides she really doesn’t want to be around her loathsome kids anymore, and leaves for a different state. Which may happen.
I hope my mother dies getting eye-fucked by the demon she sold her soul to.