This past week has been a cluster.
The negative.
Then my husband found out he's getting sued and this whole 5-year contract might be falling through and all the opportunity and hope that went with it is slowly waning.
And, then my sister tried to commit suicide.
Wednesday was her birthday. I sent her a cute little card and exchanged emails with her. She's been complaining non-stop about her life lately, so I didn't call her. I couldn't stand to hear her say one more time about how sad she is that she isn't going to "get" to have any more children (because she's decided that two is enough and she doesn't want to be pregnant again), or how much she hates her body after her twin pregnancy, or how she feels like her career is off track. Because, from my perspective, she doesn't have the *right* to complain about these things to me. I can objectively see that these are things that would upset someone, but don't complain about them to your sister that had to go through many, many rounds of IVF to get pregnant and feels her own career is lost after spending 6 years focusing on fertility treatments.
I say all these things because I feel defensive about why I didn't call her and why I have been distancing myself from her for the past two and a half years. She doesn't appreciate what she has been given and she regularly complains to me about it and it fucking pisses me off. I say this because I have been dealing with her anorexia, bulimia, depression, and alcoholism for the past 15 years and I'm tired of it.
What I didn't recognize about my sister is that she is not a tragically weak human with little self awareness, but rather a woman with a mental disorder than can't see truth because her brain won't let her. She has a problem and no amount of therapy or drugs or self reflection will fix it.
And, I love her. I can hate her. I can be sick of her problems. But, the fact of the matter is that she is my sister and I can't help but love her. I know her in intimate ways that other people just can't. I know the face she makes when she has to go to the bathroom. I know when she is manic. I know the subtext underneath everything she says. I know that the way my parents raised us has fucked her up (all of us really). I know that she hates herself and wishes she could be different. I know she feels guilty asking for help. I know why she feels guilty asking for help.
Seeing her in the hospital--her body covered in bruises from her rolling veins and IVs, the patchwork network of scabs on her legs and arms that she picks compulsively when she's anxious, the constant tapping of her shaking fingers from the remnants of drugs leaving her body-- and my heart just broke. I don't know how to stop her from hating herself.
I also feel so helpless. I can call her every day. But, she lies. She's not honest about what's happening. She didn't tell me that she's been drinking 36-40 oz of hard liquor a day. She didn't tell me that she tried to kill herself two weeks ago. That she's been going to AA meeting again. She gets violently angry when you say the wrong thing. She's selfish and self-centered. She just talks about herself. It's not an equitable friendship. It hasn't been for years. I can sometimes accept it and other times...I get so angry with her.
She's out of the hospital now. She's in outpatient treatment for alcoholism. I'm calling her every day. But, I don't know what else to do/say. I've asked whether the outpatient treatment program has a support group for family members or some sort of training for family members on how to deal with this. This is just out of my league. I don't know what to do.
You never think about the unspoken contract you have with the people you love. You never think to say before you hang up the phone: "don't kill yourself, OK?" You don't think it's a trust that you have until it is broken.
