Friday, September 21, 2012


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.

Final thought:
I hope my mother dies getting eye-fucked by the demon she sold her soul to.


  1. No one gets away from the disordered unscathed.
    You know that the disordered person is just as much an empty shell as what they turn others into. Which is the final insult.
    No one wins. Not even the narc. There are just varying degrees of loss.
    If the narcissist were as addicted to drugs as they are to sucking the lives from others, someone would intervene. But how do you quantify, codify, and rectify the hunger for the soul of another?
    All it would take from the narc is 30 seconds of self awareness of what the world already knows. That they are human and are plagued with the same imperfections as the rest of us.
    That's all.
    But they will waste countless years and lives to maintain their faultless veneer.
    Find that demon and I'll take his seconds.

    1. "...just varying degrees of loss..."
      That's one hell of a way to put it, which is exactly right, I might add.

      30 seconds is too much ask, it seems.

  2. My little sister is a casualty of my mother & father. They always called her Helpless Hannah, ripped her to shreds for not being as smart as me or our brother, made fun of how she always changed her personality to fit the guy-du-jour.

    Like you said, complete annihilation. Some days, especially this past month or so, I'm not sure they didn't wreck me too.

    1. I'm sure we both had what seemed like a perpetual gigantic target sign plastered to us. I know I did. So did my sister. The difference between my sister and my mother is that my sister is miserable and it's clearly visable. Any emotional or soulful residue is now gone from my mother. My sister has the emotional capaciy for complete and utter despair. My mother doesn't. For now, that's a big difference, however, the likelyhood that my sister will remove herself from my mother's shoes is almost none.

  3. The best we'll ever get is that pico-second of blank face you between this lie and the next.

    1. And that's their ultimate truth, their "blankness".