“I’m disappointed with you”
I can’t get these words out of my head. She was disappointed with me? The irony astounded me.
I remember when I was just seven years old, and we were visiting her at ‘Odyssey House’. At the time I didn’t know why she was there, I didn’t understand why she couldn’t live at home in her room that mum wouldn’t let anyone touch since she left. I didn’t question too much though, I was just happy to see my sister who I loved and missed. I didn’t see her again for years.
It was a few weeks after my twelfth birthday that she rang me. She apologised and told me that she didn’t mean to be gone for so long. I had to ask who was speaking – I didn’t recognise my own sisters’ voice. It had become hoarse and deep – she wasn’t a giggling teen anymore. I wondered if she knew that my birthday had just passed, or if she knew that I was twelve.
A few months later her and her boyfriend showed up with no warning. They had a shopping trolley filled with belongings, so mum set them up in the garage without hesitation. Each day after school I would rush home to see them, half-scared that they would be gone, but mostly just wanting t see my sister.
I was only in my first year of high school, so the most I knew about drugs was ‘drugs are bad’. So when she showed me the bruises and scars on her arms I didn’t know what o think. She kept talking, using words like ‘track marks’ and ‘injecting’. She told me she could inject between her toes if she had to. As a sheltered kid I didn’t know too much, but what I did understand made my stomach turn. She was my sister; I couldn’t just walk away, could I?
I wasn’t that surprised to find her gone. From what people had told me junkies didn’t recover. It must have been only a month later that I found the note. A scrap of paper wedged between the screen and wire of the front door, courtesy of her boyfriend. It said that she was still using, and described how they got the money for drugs. How he would wait outside until 3am when my sister finished working. Working at a brothel. And she was disappointed with me? I rang my dad, because I didn’t know what to do. He told me to forget about it. I did just that – forgot about it and my sister for a very long time. I even promised myself that I’d make my parents proud, so they could rely on me, like they never could with her.
She showed up off her face once more, I suppose I was around fourteen, but even I knew that day when I opened the door that this person standing in front of me, so desperate and broken, couldn’t be my sister. Mum sent her to a Salvation Army run rehab in the city.
I suppose I learnt a lot from her numerous journeys to recovery, and twelve step programs. I learnt that I couldn’t trust anyone, because if I couldn’t trust my own sister, then who could I trust? I learnt to hide behind a façade, because it would be shameful for anyone to see my pain. I learnt that no one really recovers from an addiction. She did, though. At least in theory she did. I donate to the ‘Salvos’ at every possible occasion because on some level they gave me back my sister. But she wasn’t my sister anymore.
A sister is someone who keeps you awake till midnight for the fireworks on new years. A sister brags about parties and boys but tells you you’re not allowed as you’re too young. A sister knows your birthday and never misses one because she knows how much it would hurt.
There is this Sunday School story that I can always remember – the Prodigal Son. The last few years all I hear from my parents is “Why cant you settle down like your sister?” I want to tell them she’s not perfect, remind them of what she was, but I remember a promise I made, so instead I tell them that I will, that one day they’ll be proud.
I’ve been to NA meetings, and when they give life testimonials they are supposed to talk for less than a third about their past. But I always question that. Their past is what everyone remembers – loved ones f**king up their lives and the lives of those around them.
My sister might be clean these days, but there’s still something missing. Maybe it was just the drugs or the lacuna in her childhood. Maybe it was me, maybe I am a disappointment. But when she tells me that she hates a six year old, the this little girl is conspiring to break up her marriage, it gets me thinking. Maybe she wasn’t all there to begin with.
She may be married to my brother-in-law, and mother of my nephew, but that stranger isn’t my sister. Sometimes I wish I had a sister, because I know that I don’t.
well... thats about it... any feedback would be lovely
I can’t get these words out of my head. She was disappointed with me? The irony astounded me.
I remember when I was just seven years old, and we were visiting her at ‘Odyssey House’. At the time I didn’t know why she was there, I didn’t understand why she couldn’t live at home in her room that mum wouldn’t let anyone touch since she left. I didn’t question too much though, I was just happy to see my sister who I loved and missed. I didn’t see her again for years.
It was a few weeks after my twelfth birthday that she rang me. She apologised and told me that she didn’t mean to be gone for so long. I had to ask who was speaking – I didn’t recognise my own sisters’ voice. It had become hoarse and deep – she wasn’t a giggling teen anymore. I wondered if she knew that my birthday had just passed, or if she knew that I was twelve.
A few months later her and her boyfriend showed up with no warning. They had a shopping trolley filled with belongings, so mum set them up in the garage without hesitation. Each day after school I would rush home to see them, half-scared that they would be gone, but mostly just wanting t see my sister.
I was only in my first year of high school, so the most I knew about drugs was ‘drugs are bad’. So when she showed me the bruises and scars on her arms I didn’t know what o think. She kept talking, using words like ‘track marks’ and ‘injecting’. She told me she could inject between her toes if she had to. As a sheltered kid I didn’t know too much, but what I did understand made my stomach turn. She was my sister; I couldn’t just walk away, could I?
I wasn’t that surprised to find her gone. From what people had told me junkies didn’t recover. It must have been only a month later that I found the note. A scrap of paper wedged between the screen and wire of the front door, courtesy of her boyfriend. It said that she was still using, and described how they got the money for drugs. How he would wait outside until 3am when my sister finished working. Working at a brothel. And she was disappointed with me? I rang my dad, because I didn’t know what to do. He told me to forget about it. I did just that – forgot about it and my sister for a very long time. I even promised myself that I’d make my parents proud, so they could rely on me, like they never could with her.
She showed up off her face once more, I suppose I was around fourteen, but even I knew that day when I opened the door that this person standing in front of me, so desperate and broken, couldn’t be my sister. Mum sent her to a Salvation Army run rehab in the city.
I suppose I learnt a lot from her numerous journeys to recovery, and twelve step programs. I learnt that I couldn’t trust anyone, because if I couldn’t trust my own sister, then who could I trust? I learnt to hide behind a façade, because it would be shameful for anyone to see my pain. I learnt that no one really recovers from an addiction. She did, though. At least in theory she did. I donate to the ‘Salvos’ at every possible occasion because on some level they gave me back my sister. But she wasn’t my sister anymore.
A sister is someone who keeps you awake till midnight for the fireworks on new years. A sister brags about parties and boys but tells you you’re not allowed as you’re too young. A sister knows your birthday and never misses one because she knows how much it would hurt.
There is this Sunday School story that I can always remember – the Prodigal Son. The last few years all I hear from my parents is “Why cant you settle down like your sister?” I want to tell them she’s not perfect, remind them of what she was, but I remember a promise I made, so instead I tell them that I will, that one day they’ll be proud.
I’ve been to NA meetings, and when they give life testimonials they are supposed to talk for less than a third about their past. But I always question that. Their past is what everyone remembers – loved ones f**king up their lives and the lives of those around them.
My sister might be clean these days, but there’s still something missing. Maybe it was just the drugs or the lacuna in her childhood. Maybe it was me, maybe I am a disappointment. But when she tells me that she hates a six year old, the this little girl is conspiring to break up her marriage, it gets me thinking. Maybe she wasn’t all there to begin with.
She may be married to my brother-in-law, and mother of my nephew, but that stranger isn’t my sister. Sometimes I wish I had a sister, because I know that I don’t.
well... thats about it... any feedback would be lovely