Dear Sister

I started this last year.  I never published it because it felt so raw.  It still does.  Even today, so much of this still applies.  The grief still feels fresh.  I'm still unable to say "My sister died," without crying.  Grief is far from the safe, neat, linear healing journey we crave as humans.  Grief is messy.  Grief steals your happiness.  It settles deep into your soul if you're not careful.

I still can’t say the words “my sister died,” without having to pause, without my voice faltering and tears spilling over.  Grief is a two-faced, low-life, lying bitch who lacks an expiration date.  

Nancy, I don't know if I will ever be able to at peace with losing you forever.  The irony is, when we cut contact off with each other so many years ago, I thought I was already at terms with losing you.  What I really did was abandon you.  And I'm so sorry.  It is a constant struggle to forgive myself.  I'd kicked the toxicity in our family, and I walked away feeling and thinking I was free and clear.  For several days after your death I insisted to Shawn I was fine, I'd already dealt with your loss years ago.  It quickly became apparent I was absolutely not fine.  The physical signs of grief were there long before I was able to admit just how deeply I was feeling your loss—when I wasn’t screaming or crying or apologizing to you in my sleep, I was having stress induced seizures, days-on-end bouts of insomnia, and unrelenting anxiety and constant migraines during the day.  I suffered a complete inability to function, barely able to even go through the motions of daily life.  I endured severe separation anxiety from Shawn while was he at work, developing extreme phobias and even superstitions.  I was terrified to let my children out of my sight, even in the next room or outside without me.  I began to constantly check in on my friends, probably to the point of harassment.  After losing you and Angie so close together, I began waiting for the other shoe to drop, my imagination running wild with who I would lose next.  Shock (and the pandemic) settled in, and while I wish I could say that protected me for a bit, in the end it did more harm than good, causing me to completely check out.  My heart attack followed ten months later, along with other stress and grief induced health issues.  And now, I'm the one who has to live with forever and the pain of not having been the bigger person.  There is a sting which has not subsided.

There are so many things I need to apologize to you for, I just don't know where to start.  Admittedly, I still have days when I'm angry with you for the mess you left behind.  I would have changed so many things if I could've seen the future.  It's true what they say, hindsight really is 20/20, huh?  I know much of what and how I feel now comes from my imagination, what could have been, what should have been between two sisters.

So many should haves...

We should have stood up against her together.  Someone should have stepped in.  Someone should have stopped her.  Her abuse should have strengthened our relationship. 

I'm sorry I never stood up for and with you against her.  It's a pathetic excuse and reason, but I think I was just relieved she wasn't coming after me.  Until you left, I never understood how much of her abuse you shielded me from; whether you did so intentionally or not, I'll never know.  I'm sorry I never apologized to you in person when I still had the chance, while you were still alive.  I'd made my mind up about so many things about you and our differences as moms and adults.  I had a horse called High and boy, did I ride that sucker.  I was a judgmental bitch with a narrow view of life, unable to fully comprehend the damage caused to both of us.  I said so many wrong, awful things I would never say now.  Each one of your abusers had a hand in your death.  I blame them.  Where was He in all of that?  I scream at Him sometimes, from inside my head--"WHERE WERE YOU WHEN SHE NEEDED YOU?"  For that matter, where was He when we needed him?  You turned your back on Him because you couldn't see His hand--honestly, I don't know that I can see it either anymore.  Where were the people who were supposed to protect you--protect us?  We'll never receive justice.  She'll never be punished--at the very least, she'll certainly never see the error of her ways and apologize.  I'm angry.  I'm hurt. I do not believe your soul is at rest.  She'd never allow such a thing (and neither will he, always the victim).  Now I can see, all the times you were angry at me, you were most likely angry at her and I was just the easier, safer target; while I’m sure there were times you truly were angry with me (we were sisters, after all), I now believe when you were angry with me during our childhoods, you were really angry at her—I was just the easy, most logical target.  You couldn’t safely lash out at her, so you turned on me.  I want you to know—I don’t blame you.  I’m sorry she put you in that position.  I'm sorry I was the Golden Child, the favored one.  And you were the Scapegoat.  We both had our roles to play.  I will never know what it was exactly I did to deserve that 'honor,' but I'm sorry I allowed her to pit us against each other in that way, and so many others.  I'm so sorry I let her use me.  I'm so sorry for consistently choosing anger at you over choosing trying to make a relationship with you work.  I'm sorry I could not see you for the hurt, damaged child you were.  I was hurt and damaged too, both of us products of Them, but our 'hurt and damaged' were different, and I failed to understand yours.  Even worse, once I did understand it, I judged you for it, I blamed you.  Our shared childhood, experienced so much the same, should have bound us together, strong against the world; yet, our shared childhood, experienced so very different by both of us, made us enemies instead, weak apart from each other.  Life in that house should have united us.  Instead, it divided us.  

I cling to memories and keep you alive for my kids.  I hope my kids will learn from me and you, and have better, closer sibling relationships.  It's important to me they have each other.  I'm sure you knew, but I used to sit in the hallway outside your closed door, listening to you practice your flute and piccolo.  You were so talented and I loved hearing you play.  I was always a little jealous how naturally the piano came to you while I struggled to just plink out the basics!  Oh, how badly I wanted to be as good as you!  You played with such feeling.  Whenever I hear flute music now, I find my head lilting to the side, a smile spreading on my face, remembering the beauty with which you played.  Remember that time you went toe to toe with our neighbor across the street in Virginia Beach, defending me and my friends?  I can't even remember her name, or her kids' names, but I was so proud and happy to be your sister that day.  Her kids were harassing me and my friends and after we all had words, she came marching across the street, ready to tear someone a new one.  Instead, you stood up for me and Marcy and Shirley in a way I'd never seen before.  I stood in such of awe of you that day.  I have to wonder now if, in your own mind, you were standing up to Janet.  I remember that same year, early Christmas morning, I heard you come out of the bathroom and you took me down to see the tree, just you and me.  It felt like a secret, our secret, a big secret with my big sister.  I probably did something bratty like tell on you later that morning (in fact, I did tell on you... I said I'd caught you using the red light on your Walkman as a flashlight to snoop...), but that is a memory I hold dear now.  Kind of like the time you came to my rescue in college, dropping everything, no questions asked.  You were my big sister then, protecting me, looking out for me.  In that moment, you were the sister I'd always needed you to be.  I guess that is one of a few secrets you took to the grave for me.  I'm certain you took some of your own secrets with you, too.

Every day that passes, I still miss you.  I miss what might've been had we both hung in there.  I keep hoping the pain of your absence will lessen with time.  It hasn't yet, and in six months you'll have been gone four very long years.  

I miss you, and I'm sorry.