Sister Memories

Memories are a funny thing. At a high in life, it’s hard to remember the bad times. The times that destroyed you, ripped you straight to the core of your being and left you bleeding and screaming for it all to stop. You can forget what it was to struggle and battle. It is such a good time. Such a bright time. How could anything ever go wrong? How was anything ever wrong before? At a low in life, it’s almost impossible to remember the good times. The times that were filled with love, laughter and light. We forget what it looks like to wake to the sun on our face and look toward the day with hope. Good times can make us forget the bad. Bad times can destroy the good. People can destroy our memories as well. One moment we remember a person as the air in our lungs, the beat of our hearts, the blood in our veins. They are another part of us,a piece that makes us complete. Then they go and ruin it all by making one stupid, life altering decision.

I remember when my sister was my best friend. We butt heads, as all sisters do, but we had an undeniable link, as most sisters do. She would run to my room, a safe haven, when mom and dad were being ‘too much’, asking ‘too much’ of her. She would talk for hours about her dreams, her worries, her wishes. We fought, we cried, we screamed, we hugged, we laughed, we loved. I struggle to look back at those times now and remember the good times. I have to concentrate, and pull, pull at the memories to resurface. The memory of her dressing up when I received a camera for a gift, eager to have me take her picture. The memory of her art strewn across the room, scrawled over the bunk bed, dripping onto the carpet in a rainbow puddle. The memory of her holding my first child. The memory of her helping me hide my vampire books from mom and dad. The memory of her letters from Alabama, filled with drawings and hope. The memory of her weight gain, her pink cheeks, her bright eyes. The memory of her–of her– ah, the memory slipped from my grasp.

I remember, better than the good memories sadly, the bad ones. The memory of her screaming at me for demanding my house key back, throwing crass names in my face in front of my children. The memory of her marked wrists slipping past the baggy sleeves of her hoodie. The memory of her glazed eyes as she asked how my day was. The memory of her pained face, tears streaming down her cheeks as she apologized. The memory of her sleeping in my passenger seat on the drive to a hospital. The memory of my heart racing as I glanced over at her, terrified I would have to pull over and call my parents with the news that she was gone, passed in my car, an hour away from them. The memory of my mother and I cleaning out her room for the millionth time, rushing to cover hurtful words scrawled on the walls, lying to my mother that I wasn’t doing anything. Not to worry. Not to ask. The memory of my father’s sighs, his heartbroken eyes as he ended another call with her. The memory of my mother’s anger, pain radiating off of her in fierce, enraged flames. The memory of calling my brother, updating him while my parents tried to hide the pain, the fear, the worry from him. The memory of threatening my other, younger siblings. That if they ever, even thought of, following down her path, even dipping their toe in the water of the ocean she was drowning in, I would throttle them.

I remember the start of it all. I remember the beginnings of her descent. I remember wishing I had said something more, was softer, was rougher, was there more, was there less. I remember giving up hope, of wishing, secretly, quietly, that she would just…go. That this would all be over. That the pain she was causing my father, my mother, my sisters, my children, myself, that it would just stop. She would go, and we would hurt, but it would be a pain that slowly got easier, slowly lessened its chokehold on our hearts. Grieving the dead seems so much easier than grieving the living. The dead, we know their pain is over. We know their fight, their struggle, is done and they can rest. The ugly thoughts, the hurt, the anguish, the fear. It would be over. The living carry on, bearing the weight of the immense, soul shattering pain, living a half life. The ones around them, that care, that love, suffer with them. There is not an end in sight when grieving the living. I wished for an end to it.

I remember wishing for a new beginning. I remember regaining my hope, my faith, that things would turn around. I remember angrily shoving aside the hopelessness. I remember clawing at the good memories, begging them to resurface. The memory of her passion. The memory of her art. The memory of her laugh. The memory of her smile. The memory of her hug. The memory of her soft ‘I love you.’ The memory of her strength. Her stubbornness. Her tenacity. The memory of how picky she is about the way her sandwich is constructed. The memory of how beautiful she was, is, can be.

There are memories of her I will never forget. Both good and bad. There are memories I hope to one day make with her. There are dreams and plans and hopes and wishes. There are stories I want to share, art I want to show, books I want to discuss, secrets I want to entrust. There are moments she missed that I want to include her in. There are connections she has been disconnected from that I want to give her a line to. One day I hope to. First though, she has to gain the memories of pain, hurt, rehab, detoxing, aches, jail, confinement, addiction, denial, healing. I can’t force her to create these memories. I can’t force her to remember the good, to focus on the sun, the hope, the love. If I could worm my way into her brain, rework her mind to have peace, to want recovery, to put her stubbornness towards healing instead of hurting, I would. For now, all I can do is hang on to the bright memories. To remember her as she was, as she can be. To forgive her. To love her. To have hope. To cherish the memories and have faith that one day, one day, she will remember how good the sun feels.