Powerless

“Change must start from the individual. And the individual must want and feel ready to make such change.” – Efrat Cybulkiewicz

“Then I totaled my car into a transformer telephone pole.”

My sister and I are visiting old friends of ours. We have not seen them in years and are doing the obligatory catch-up game. We are blessed that these are the type of friends that require no explanation for the separate ways we have taken over the years, and only wish to know how we have been. Despite getting married and having a surprise child, I have almost nothing to say that seems interesting and worthwhile at the moment. The stage is my sister’s in this case.

“It was on a hill, so when I got out of the car, I turned and watched all the lights – boom, boom, boom – they all blacked out in the town, one section after another. And I was like…’oh shit’.”

               We all laugh. My sister caused a power outage in an entire town and we have to laugh. The time for shame and guilt have passed over the course of two years sobriety and a ton of introspective work. They laugh at the morbid hilarity of how bad it actually got. I laugh with the gratitude it did not get any worse.

               My role in our once nuclear family, for the longest time, was that of the Inflexible Morality Police. Though my family, broken and now repaired with new relationships and stronger than ever, lovingly tells me I was simply firm in my beliefs, the truth is that I was an insufferable prude. It showed in the way they used to hide things from me. It showed in the way they used to twist the truth to protect themselves, knowing my former judgement. My disappointment meant a lot to them. It was to protect me, on occasion: I never drank until I was 21; I have never done drugs; I had never even dated until I was 20; I refused to talk about anything sexual, explicit, or “wild”. I sounded like a conservative in a liberal family. The baby in terms of life experience, despite being the older child. For the record, I am no longer like this, but old expectations can be hard to reverse.

“When I was at the station, the one cop looked at me suspiciously and was like, ‘Was that you who shut down the whole town?’ and I was like, ‘Yeaaaah?’ and he started laughing and saying, ‘I thought so! You look like trouble!’”

Ha ha ha. For another record, my sister is the opposite of looking like trouble. Bubbly personality, blue eyes, and long, red hair. Freckles and an easy smile.

               When my mom and sister called me on the phone to tell me what happened that night, I was told she was sober. She was driving pretty fast – a standard for her – and hit a small divot in the road and lost control. I was told that when the police showed up, they found her weed bowl in her destroyed car and that is why they arrested her. I was told her trip to the hospital for testing was just standard procedure. Later, I was told they found just pot in her bloodstream. So many half-truths.

               They actually found 5 different substances in her veins. She was arrested on the scene because of the weed bowl. Thanks to being a very charismatic person who had the arresting officer laughing during their 10 minute drive to the hospital, she was graced with not being handcuffed. Graced with being treated like a person instead of criminal. She spent a bit of time in the cell at the deputy office before our mom came to pick her up. She was crying a whole lot. The reality of the situation started setting in. This was rock bottom.

“I had to do some court stuff and since it was just my first offense, I had to do AA meeting stuff and pay for the telephone pole. And holy shit, that was expensive. But yeah, that was like, my wake-up call to get my life together.”

I have listened to this retelling a few times. I have told it myself, when giving context about my family’s journey through life. The uneasiness prickles uncomfortably, still. My stomach clenches just a bit, remembering that phone call. “She was in an accident.” No one wants to hear that. Sitting at my dining room table, and then immediately getting up to pace around the house while asking questions as to what happened. I didn’t get all the true details until a year later. Maybe even two. My expected disappointment was formidable to her.

               She could have died. I could have lost my only sister. I’m not even referring to the accident. I know the statistics for drug addiction. They are not in favor of recovery and it could have spiraled so much farther out of control. The helplessness of that moment, knowing there was nothing I could do, has had lasting repercussions. I am absolutely, soul-crushingly, powerless to keep people safe from themselves. And while I will always be ready and willing to help pick up the pieces, what if there had been no pieces to pick up? What happens when I’m not told about those pieces over there, and I’m trying to help rebuild a jigsaw puzzle that has holes in it? I’ve always had some level of anxiety, but this…this is almost a phobia.

“It’s been two years since I even did weed and I don’t even want to have it again. I just don’t like the way it makes me feel anymore.”

               Me neither, ‘lil sis. Our friends reply with appropriate levels of “That’s crazy!” and “I’m so glad you are doing better now!” and we move on to other topics. And while I smile and continue to participate, I allow myself a moment to well and truly feel my residual helplessness. Avoiding it is impossible, and though I hate it, I have found that giving it a space in my mind has eased the burden by, maybe, an iota. My anxiety shakily demands me to control all things in my life, to assure perfection and safety. But we cannot control people, especially the ones we love. And who would really want to? What power I have gained through the lessons taught to me by those loved ones. What power I have gained through experiencing that helplessness and becoming a better, more relaxed, and trusted person. It is truly empowering.