I remember the first time my sister hit me.
I was 11 or 12 at the time. My older brother was out running errands, and my parents had just gone out for a lovely dinner for their wedding anniversary. We assured them everything would be fine while they were gone, and that they didn't need to worry.
Oops.
I wanted to go play in my room, but Sarah wanted me to do the dishes. I said we should wait until our brother, Kevin, comes home so he could help us. She insisted on doing them now. I tried to walk away, and that's when she hit me. It wasn't hard, just an open slap on the back of the head, but it hurt emotionally. I screamed and cried at her, and I believe she was as shocked at the action as I was.
I stormed out of the house just as Kevin pulled into our driveway. He asked what happened, and I simply exclaimed "Sarah hit me!" I left out the part where it didn't hurt. I left out the part where I may have deserved it for being rude with her. Kevin, eight years my senior and very protective of me, stomped off into the house and a screaming match ensued.
I sat out on the porch and waited for my parents to come home, trying my hardest to ignore the screaming match inside my house.
I was used to it by then. I often had little forms of retreats inside the house so I could hide from the world and the fighting. I had a dresser in my closet I could crawl on top of and hide behind the hanging clothes. One of my favourite hiding places was the TV downstairs, where I'd sit at the couch and turn up the volume until I couldn't hear her screaming.
Sarah was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and a slew of other mental health issues. She was a pathological liar and a very difficult person to get along with.
That's not to say I have no good memories of my sister, of course. In fact, for most of my childhood, Sarah and I were close friends. We would play together often and we used to sing duets. I loved her.
I suppose that's what made the last few years before her death so much more difficult.
She grew controlling and paranoid, sending threatening emails to my friends and asking those she knew to spy on me to ensure I didn't go near anyone she didn't "approve." If I argued, I faced her wrath. She terrified me. She was like fire, wild and vengeful. My parents had to deal with the worst of her ire, and I fled from her whenever I had the chance to avoid it myself.
Sarah often attempted suicide. It was not an uncommon occurrence at our house to have the pills locked up in a chest so that she could not get to them, and razors stashed in a locked cupboard. Before and after each attempt, she would talk to me. She told me how my life would be better without her, and she needed to kill herself for me. It was an excuse for her actions, but it made 12 year old me believe that if I weren't around, she wouldn't have to hurt herself.706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFaJa4jlYKq
I remember a number of instances where I would be dropped of at a friend or family member's house as she was rushed into the hospital. And there I waited, feeling alone, never knowing if she was going to make it or not. I spent so many nights alone wondering if that was the day I had killed my sister, that I still get panicky in the evenings.
It was for this reason that the day my sister died was both the saddest and happiest day of my life.
When my mother found her dead in bed on a beautiful summer morning in July, I took charge immediately. I was 14.
I got my mother on the phone with emergency responders while I called my dad and my brother, telling them to come home immediately. I cleared a pathway down the hallway for the ambulance and police to enter, and put the cats in the basement with food, water, and litter. I left mom and waited outside for people to start arriving.
Dad came first, and I explained the situation to him. He let out a scream of anger and denial and ran inside the house. I heard him and mom from inside her room, begging Sarah to wake up. I steeled myself against the tears that threatened me, however. I couldn't afford to get emotional yet.
The paramedics came, followed by police. I led them inside and showed them to the room. Soon other people started arriving - my uncle who lived next door, my mom's friend from down the street - to see the commotion. I greeted every single one with an explanation and a hug. I still could not cry.
When I look back on that day, I find myself very proud of how I held everything together, even while my parents were crumbling. I ensured people who came to comfort us had food and drinks. I helped out the first responders in any way they asked. I even directed traffic at one point, all without an emotional outburst.
In fact, I didn't have an emotional outburst until I was 18, but we'll get to that later.
I managed to get my parents through the funeral and long after, being their rock. I didn't realize at the time how much it chipped away at my sanity, not allowing myself to be upset. In truth, I was mostly angry at Sarah for doing this to our family, and relieved that I no longer had to hide.
I went back to school in September, and that's where problems began to arise. You see, Sarah and I had attended the same small-town high school. Nearly every student and teacher in the school knew us, so as I walked down the hallways, everyone gave me pitying stares. Pity mixed with something else - fear.
See, years later I found out that the teachers had a meeting about me before the school year began. They believed I was a high risk for suicide. Apparently, it's common in siblings who watch a brother or sister take their own life. They all thought I was next.
So it was pity and fear as I walked down the hallways. Everyone walked on eggshells, not wanting to be the one to upset me and push me over the edge.
And so began the beginning of my life as "the sister of the girl who had killed herself." I was no longer Heather or Scribble or "the dinosaur chick" or anything else people knew me as. My life and my fate, as far as they were concerned, was solely connected to this final act of my sister's. Throughout high school, that is solely what defined me. Perhaps that's why I was so drawn to the idea of moving away for university, starting a new life where people did not know me.706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqAeVbXDJTw
But I found that it was not so easy to escape her influence, no matter how far I ran. Her words and actions haunted me, until I became obsessed with thinking it was my fault. She had done it because of me. She's dead because of me. And because I felt this weight fly off my shoulders as she died, she was right. Life was better without her. I could be friends with whoever I wanted, and I never had to worry at night any more. She was right, life was better without her, and that made me feel even more guilty. Had I really done this to her? If it weren't for me, would she still be alive? Would my parents have had to go through this pain?
I became so obsessed with my guilt, I couldn't focus on my schoolwork. I failed my first year of university horribly, and was discharged from the institution. I came back home again, overshadowed by the legacy she left behind for me, and fell deeper into depression.
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