The Other Side of the Sister Saga

My father worshiped my sister. She was the golden girl, who could do no wrong. If he was angry, and she walked in the room, his anger dissipated. The way he looked at my sister was something I envied beyond reason. There had to be something really wrong with me, something lacking in me, because obviously he had love to give... just not to me.

When my sister left for college, there was a huge hole in our house. My mother’s depression deepened, my father began to spend more time away from home, and I was put in charge of my seven-year-old brother.

I was nine, the same age as sister had been when I was born.
I was given a key to the house, and told to get my brother to his second grade classroom, and after school I was to find him again and then come straight home. We were to close and lock the front door behind us. We were not to go out, let anyone in, or answer the door, and we were assigned chores to keep us busy.

I began to resent my sister.
If she had not left, I wouldn't have to take care of my brother. If she had not left, I wouldn't have been so alone all the time. If she had not left, my mother wouldn't be so incredibly sad, and my father…
…well, that’s very complicated.
It was easier when my father wasn't around much. His unpredictability turned my world upside-down on a regular basis. Even so, I was angry that he wasn't around. It was further proof that I had no value.
But most of all, if she had not left, I would still feel loved.

Watching her walk out the door had been like watching my mother leave, and all the anger of an abandoned child was mine.

Then, as Christmas approached, my mother began to cheer up.
She said, “she’s coming home soon.”
“She’s coming home tomorrow.”
“She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
She stood at the picture window in the front room and watched for her. My father paced the house.
Then, my sister walked in the door and my parents gushed over her.

While she was gone, I'd been given the responsibilities of a young adult. When she came home, I was suddenly treated like a child much younger than my years.
I hated it.

In time, my mother would start saying, “She’ll be leaving in a few days.”
And then, “She’s going tomorrow.”
And finally, “She’s packing her things.”
And then my sister would walk out the door again
And again
And again
And my mother's depression would walk in.

My resentment grew exponentially each time my sister left, came home and left again.

The two sides to the sister saga left me in complete confusion. She was the one I loved most, the one I needed most, and the biggest thorn in my side all rolled up in tight bundles. I hid it all behind a closed door, unwilling or unable to open it and look at the swirling emotions.

Three weeks ago, I opened that door... and I am finally beginning to understand and come to terms with all of this, but that is a topic for another entry.

Sister Saga

There are so many secrets locked in my head, behind doors that I have been unwilling to open. For the last few weeks, I've been looking at one of those closed doors.

I think it took this long to look at it because I thought it was not about my father. Being angry at my father, finding new and never before thought of reasons to hate him, to hurt him, to justify my anger, that was easy. I had decided a long time ago that he was the reason for all of my problems. The more proof I had, the better.

My mother has suffered from depression all her life. When I was little, my sister was put in charge of me. She changed my diapers, fed me, dressed me, played with me. She was nine years old when I was born and I suppose my younger brother and I were like living dolls for her to play with.

She has always been a wonderful sister. She took good care of us. She comforted us when we were hurt, cheered us up when we were sad, and I have always loved her much more than a child loves an older sister.

When I was eight years old, I began to hear talk about college. My sister was going to leave - to head off to college. All summer, she prepared for this event. Things were bought, set aside in a corner of her room, for her to move out.

I knew she wouldn't go. She could never leave me. I was certain of it and I did everything I could to prevent it. 

Even as I watched her pack her things, watched her close a suit case, watched my older brother carry boxes down the long stairway, I knew she would not leave me.

She couldn't.

I was sure.

My father went out to the car, carrying the last of her things with him.

I stood in the kitchen with my brothers and my mother, and my heart pounded in my chest. The familiar “I can’t breathe” feeling swept over me.

I moved in front of the door. I was not going to let her go.

She couldn't leave me.

She just wouldn't.

I stood in front of the door and screamed, “I’m not letting you go!”

My mother told me, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

A look of exasperation came over my sister’s face. She had tears in the corners of her eyes. “Dad’s waiting.”

I stepped out from in front of the door.

She hugged my mother and my brothers.

I refused to hug her.

She walked through the door, and she pulled it shut behind her, and – in my mind – that door has been shut ever since.