Exhaustion

by mysisterisajunkie

I last wrote on Christmas. What’s happened since then has been more of the same. More boyfriends and breakups, more drugs and lies about drugs and eventual confessions when it serves the next end game.

More valium from the GP, more money from my father, more expletives, more freakouts, more yo-yoing.

Two weeks ago she got kicked out by that boyfriend and was screaming and having a tantrum on the side of the road outside his house. The cops got called (the cops, dude, the cops) and she got picked up. My father, on his steed to the rescue, got the call and picked her up from the police station. She was trying to lay a charge for the gang rape that happened months ago, didn’t want to take responsibility for the public meltdown she was having or that the cops thought she was high and took her in for a public disturbance. 

Her getting picked up by the police wasn’t enough.

She said she’d been kicked out because the boyfriend, his sister and her friend were doing coke and she said no (yeah, sure). Today she admitted she’d been fucked on coke that day (duh). Still not enough.

Now it’s the wanting rehab (ie: wanting the doctor sanctioned drugs that will make her stoned – valium, bitches, valium). Now it’s the same tears, the same spiral of ‘I’ve wasted the last three years of my life’.

Yes. Yes you have. 

But pick yourself up. Pick up the pieces and stop treating our entire family like your goddam punching bag.

You wonder why I lost respect for you.

I lost it when this shit all started more than half my life ago. 

I lost it before than when my big sister became my worst nightmare and the attack dog I never saw coming.

Having you as a sister is exhausting. Your addiction is exhausting. Your lies are exhausting. Your bipolar is exhausting. Your borderline is exhausting.

And the thought that one day I’ll be the ‘parent’ taking care of you when ours are dead is enough to crush my spirit. I can’t handle you at this distance I’ve enforced but in another 20 years, you’ll be the yolk on my back and the burden I carry til I die.

It’s not fair.

This shouldn’t be life.

I shouldn’t have this stranger as a sister.

But tomorrow, I’ll plaster on my smile with my makeup and go to work and say I had a wonderfully relaxed weekend and I won’t say a word about the sucker punches you threw today. And every time I get a message, my heart will sink as I wait for the next blow in the nightmare that’s been the past three years of your relapse.

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