Sarah Elizabeth Bazil was born on the 9th day of the 9th month in 1990, a fact that she enjoyed sharing. I even remember her 9th birthday was appropriately themed, with her inviting 9 friends and playing 9 party games my mom devised.
Of course, I was welcome at that party as one of her friends. I was always welcome to play with her and her friends when we were younger. We'd explore the woods surrounding our house, or play school and other imaginary games.
I have many fond memories of Sarah, and her and I were close when we were kids. We got in normal sibling fights over toys and games and other minor things, but she was my best friend when I was young. We had our own secret language, we sang duets while waiting for the school bus, and we used to build a massive sprawling tent in the living room we called Tent-o-mania. We even made a photo album together of us and our friends using pictures from an old camera. We were happy.
Perhaps that made it even harder when everything changed.
It was a gradual change, one that I only notice now from years of reflection. We began to drift apart slowly. She thought our secret language was childish and refused to speak it to me. Our duets stopped, and she began to ignore me at the bus stop.
I remember her friends taking notice, inviting me to go play. They thought I was adorable and sweet, but looking back on it now I realize how much Sarah must have hated the way they fawned over me the way no one ever doted on her.
This jealousy of hers continued as she entered into puberty. It was a difficult time for her, I imagine. Her medication changed and she started gaining weight fast, and she was starting to get bullied at school because of it.
It wasn't until I was a little older that I had any inkling of what Sarah went through. Even then, I was too absorbed in my own world to think about her. It hurts to say that, but it's true. The mind of a child often can't see beyond their own troubles. In my mind, we were still best friends and she was so cool, so I looked to her for advice.
I was a very social kid back in the day, and had a great number of friends in my class. I was happy, but bored with the actual schoolwork. I was really advanced for my age, so they put me a grade ahead. I went from grade 1, where all my friends were, to grade 3. Suddenly, I found myself in a classroom of people a year older than me, with their own cliques and friendships where I didn't fit in. I quickly became the weird girl at the side of the class with a hearing aid and oversized hand-me-down clothes who hung out with the "younger kids" at recess.
That's not to say I didn't make any friends at this time, but that's when the bullying started. I went to Sarah to ask for help in what to do. I relied on her. I didn't know she was being bullied herself. I didn't know the troubles she was having in her own life.
I think telling her about my problems was the beginning of the end of our relationship. It was like something snapped in her when she heard me telling her how the older kids were mean to me. She asked me who they were, and I gave her some names. She went ballistic, telling me to "tear them apart" or she would. The violence reflected her own feelings, and I think she didn't want me to feel the way she did. She raved and threatened so much that I finally agreed I would beat them up just to get her to calm down.
After that, I stopped coming to her for help and advice. I was always worried she would escalate everything, and she often did. She got more argumentative with everyone in our family and I drifted farther and farther away from her. Sarah was like fire to me: beautiful to look at and warm and comforting, but she was terrifying and could singe and burn you if you got too close. I chose to not get too close.
For a long time after she died, I regretted that I didn't reach out to her. I thought that if we had kept up the special "sisterly" connection, things may not have escalated so far so fast. We could have opened up to each other and talked about how much she was suffering. I could have helped her.
Looking back on it now, though, I know I wouldn't have done any different, and I'm glad I never got closer to her. It may sound harsh, but I recognized the overprotective actions in her and distanced myself from it. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have met some of the best friends in my life, friends that she tried to stop me from seeing - but more on that later.
I also wouldn't have grown such a wonderful relationship with my mother. After Sarah snapped and I promised myself I'd never put myself in that position again, I reached out to the only other female in the household, and I thank my stars every day I did. I know I can still tell my mom anything, and she can share things with me she's too afraid to share with anyone else. She's my best friend, through and through, and I never would have made it this far in my life if she hadn't been my rock.
That's not to say I didn't have any good memories of Sarah after that, but they are far and few between. I refer to them now as "moments of clarity," where the sister I remember from childhood would shine through amidst all the violence and threats.
One such "moment of clarity" is getting ready for our cousin's wedding together. Mom had forgotten her dress, so her and Dad rushed out to find one and left Sarah and I alone in the hotel room together. She brushed my hair and talked about boys and makeup and other things 12 and 14 year olds talk about. We giggled and shared secrets, and it was one of the most calm and touching moments I ever had with Sarah.
Another one was when we were out at a shopping mall with Mom. I don't remember the context of where we were coming from or going to, but I remember we went shopping to waste time. We talked in French the entire time so that Mom couldn't understand what we were saying. It felt so much like when we were little kids again, speaking in our secret language and having pointless conversations that only we understood. It didn't last long, but it was memorable in how familiar it felt to walk beside her, gibbering away.
These "moments of clarity" with Sarah are a bit of a double-edged sword. All the bad things that happened leading up to her death pushed all the good memories from our childhood out of my mind for nearly a decade after she died. If you asked me three years ago to name a single happy memory of my sister from before the dark times, I doubt I could remember a single one. History remembers the horrible, and most of my experience with Sarah was horrible.
Those happy moments of clarity made me realize that Sarah was still inside that unpredictable ball of hatred she had become, and with that knowledge came guilt that I didn't try to help her. I'd have nightmares that she was trapped or possessed by some spirit or demon, and she begged me to help her. I knew she was still inside there somewhere, and I had dangerous hope that she might have returned to normal.
But those moments when she shone through as the caring, brilliant or talented girl I remembered her as - even in the middle of the dark times - were comforting. It helped me to remember that underneath her skewed perceptions and violent outbursts was a good person, a caring sister and a loving friend. It allowed me to remember the good times as well as the bad, and brought me comfort when I cried myself to sleep. I didn't just lose my sister - I lost my friend.
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