Sisterhood in the Shadows
October 1, 2024
Writer: Anonymous
Editor: Ava Londa
It was a Tuesday when my mom called and asked me if my brother had taken any hallucinogens. I only remember the day because I was waiting for my statistics class to start. I’d been dodging her calls for two weeks. I’d tell her I was in class every time she called – a blatant lie, I hadn’t gone to class at all since he visited – but she persisted, as a mother does.
She had to ask me a few times before I answered.
“I don’t know, Mom, what kind of question is that?” We both knew I was playing dumb. I heard screaming in the background of the phone call and relented. I had avoided her calls for this very reason.
“He told me he took acid, I guess. Why?” I knew that the nonchalance of which I told her this wouldn’t soften the blow. This was her middle-school-aged son. She didn’t react, though, and instead, she hung up the phone.
This interaction marked the start of a two year long struggle in which I’ve navigated feelings of anger, sadness, loneliness, and loss. My younger brother, who I remembered as a meek, kind and innocent boy, had turned into someone that we no longer recognized. He dabbled in drugs – which she became aware of after he fell into a drug-induced psychosis – and started failing out of school. I felt powerless – I was his big sister, I should’ve been able to do something. Was it the teasing I’d subjected him to as a kid that made him this way?
Though my brother pledged to not do drugs again out of fear of being sent away, his behavior remained a contentious topic in the following years. He doesn’t go out much. He refuses to eat dinner with the family. Worst of all, he doesn’t see an issue with his seclusion. My parents don’t seem to do much in response, though. His meals are subsequently delivered to his door and his door remains locked for all hours of the day.
I watched as my parents became inundated with his struggles. They say you’re only as happy as your least happy child and it showed. My mother stopped calling and my father was angry that I felt such strong resentment for my brother. They couldn’t fathom why I was angry instead of empathetic for his situation. They, of course, remember him as a babbling toddler with big blue eyes and naivete. I remember him as the boy who begged me to play Temple Run on my phone before he had one of his own – I’d avert my eyes when he’d lose, though the rule was that we’d trade off after every “death,” just to give him a few more minutes of entertainment.
Eventually, I became something of a glass child. My parents didn’t ask about my classes or my homework or my friends – they knew it was all good. They had bigger things to worry about. When I’d return home for holidays or summer break, I walked on eggshells in fear of his reaction, and in turn, my parents' anger being redirected at me. Though I was aware that my actions were a byproduct of my feelings of neglect by my parents, I would lash out on my parents for a reaction, just to see if they even cared about me. I’d storm out of dinners, open the car door in the middle of the street, and scream and cry at 20 years old just so I could feel like their child again. I hated my brother, though. He was struggling and I hated him for it. I couldn’t understand that as fortunate as we were, he could essentially just say fuck you to my parents and burn his life to the ground. We had been given everything, and somehow, I flourished, whereas he was sitting in a room ignoring assignments, conversations, and interaction.
I started seeing a therapist in hopes that she’d help me navigate my feelings of resentment towards my brother and my parents in their ignorance of the severity of the issues. Every lunch with my mom, which used to be my favorite pastime, was spent debating what she should do with him. I urged her to stop enabling his behavior and she urged me to butt out. My therapist advised me to do the same – she understood why I was so upset, but she reminded me that I was not his parent, I was his sister.
A few months after I started seeing the doctor, my family took a trip to our summer home. Over a bottle of wine, I cried to my mom about the fractures in our relationship following my brother’s struggle. I asked what I could do. She reminded me, “Just be his sister.”
I took this advice to heart. I asked him if he wanted to watch my favorite movie with me. It was definitely awkward – we hadn’t spent any time alone together since the upsetting visit he spent in my college dorm two years before. I could tell it meant a lot to him, though. The following day, my parents were much happier with me than they’d been in a while. I offered to make my brother my (self-proclaimed) famous rigatoni alla vodka. He nodded and my mom mouthed to me, “Thank you.”
Though it was hard to relinquish the sense of control that I feel entitled to, I’ve had to remind myself that I am not the parent. I am a sister. And a good one. My brother looks up to me and my kindness can only serve as inspiration to him as he works to get himself out of the hole he’s inevitably fallen into. To be honest, I still haven’t fully accepted the situation. However, I’m trying my best. To my brother – I love you, and I’m sorry. To my parents – I will always be your daughter and I will continue to serve as an example and not an authority.
