The Sibling's Vantage Point

Every morning when I get in the back seat of the car, she nervously bites her thumbnails. She puts all that eye makeup on in the morning, but I know what she looks like when its all gone, and she might be able to hide from other people, but she can't hide from me. She is thinking about her classes and getting through the day, anxious for family session again with Kristen. If she starts to look too serious I keep poking her in the back of her neck until she breaks into a smile, laughs, and yells back at me to stop being annoying. If she looks calm I put my hand on her shoulder so she will reach up to hold my fingers through my cast, I like sharing her happy moments with her.

I walked into school behind my sister once again, the combination of cold air and her darn mix of body sprays assaulting me. Why are girls always so fragrant? Her outfit, makeup, and hairstyle are always pushing the envelope for what Mom is comfortable with, and I spend the morning eating my breakfast in silence while the two of them run around the house and argue. She intentionally carries her heavy totebag slung over one shoulder, despite Mom and Dad's precautionary commands against it. They still have a fear of her old shoulder and back injuries coming back. In her hand she carries her lunch, made with reluctant irritation according to her meal plan the night before. Mom put a Starbucks cookie in there last night, but she totally won't eat it. I follow her into the senior hallway and Alex is there waiting for her. She's always talking to Alex! Except for during the night time, that's when I go to her room to get Spanish questions answered or hear her high school advice about how to understand stupid girls and get rid of mean friends.

In the hallways between classes I see her sometimes and yell out her name or give her a side hug, trying not to squish her with my forearm wrapped in fiberglass. It feels like it did in elementary school when she would give me a hug after recess, before going back to class. Except she's older now, the hugs seem more sad, and I don't want her to go far away to school. She's been gone for too many reasons, to many places, for too long. When she is home, some days are easy, but it feels like a lot of the time she, Mom, and Dad just fight and cry, fight and cry. My sister gets really puffy cheeks and red eyes after a long time of crying. I tried to make her laugh one time by saying that she looked high. I always want to hear her real laugh, the loud one that fades into wheezy-sounding giggles because of her asthma. If she laughs after being sad, her voice starts out really quiet, like a whisper, "thanks bro.." She has a wide range of voices. The medium one for talking to me and to friends, the soft voice for telling me secrets or an inappropriate joke, the broken voice for when she is sad, her attitude voice when she wants to be sarcastic, her accent voices when she wants to imitate someone, her loud voice when she wants to get someone's attention, and her really loud voice for when she fights.

She wants really badly to go and be independent in college, but I think her anxiousness to leave is just to hide her fears of the future, she's actually really scared, but the change of scenery would be good for her.

Before bed, I sometimes go into her room, and she is still in the middle of doing homework, but she makes a space for me next to her and wraps a blanket around my legs. She sometimes puts her arm around my shoulders just to reassure me, then asks what is on my mind. That's kind of like her invitation, she is a good listener, but she also likes having space to think, so when she acts welcoming it is easier to talk about hard stuff. I've asked her questions about how to deal with teachers I don't like, what to do if I have a crush on a girl or I think another girl likes me, what to do when I feel bullied or beaten down by some of my friends, and how to talk calmly with someone when I disagree with their opinions. A lot of times I just sit there with her, one of the few times of day when she is actually quiet, but we don't really need to say anything. I know what she is thinking and she understands what I am thinking. She just kind of blankly stares at the wall and I hold her hand or tap on her knee. I'll miss this, I know she needs me, and I don't want her to go away.

Personal Declaration of Interdependence and Independence

I was surrounded by grey; out from under the grey, rainy sky into the big house with grey walls and grey upholstered couches, but from my place in the doorway, I could see of pair of wild eyes scrutinizing me from under a mess of black hair. The environment was cold and unfamiliar, polished to a high sheen like a hotel lobby, and with the aroma of hours old lunch leftovers, my already immediate fear and loneliness was exacerbated. My parents had driven an hour and fifteen minutes away from home to the Center for Discovery, a 24 hour residential eating disorder care facility in Edmonds, Washington, and it was to be my home for the next nine weeks. The program coordinator, a woman who was slightly stiff and very official ushered us all into the entrance of the hollow, unwelcoming foyer. While my parents spent the next few hours filling out paperwork, I looked listlessly over the rulebook for the Center in the red folder that I was given. The first friendly glance that met my eyes was an inordinately cheerful clip-art smiley face on the inside cover of the folder. In the weeks to come that smiley-face in the red folder became the object towards which I directed screams from the whole spectrum of human emotion while battling the fiercest demon I have ever faced with body, mind, and soul.

            In the car ride on the way to the Center, the questions that replayed in my head like bad song lyrics was a depressing loop of “how did this happen?”, “so has it really come to this?” During the past year, the amount of changes and traumas that our family faced seemed to come in rapid succession and with unrelenting abruptness. My dad had been diagnosed with prostate cancer in the summer of 2012, the following month I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and depression, and my younger brother and mom were left to pick up the pieces as our monthly calendars started to fill up with visits to the oncologist, nutritionist, therapist, psychiatrist, and a myriad of other “ist’s.” However, I never got answers to my questions, just dreams.     

The most inspirational, jarring, but mentally scarring was set in a sea. I was submerged underwater looking up at a sun-lit surface, my breath running out, and grasping at a glass-like covering separating water from air. I was fighting to break the glass, pounding on it with my fists, watching the cracks slowly increase, feeling my lungs tighten. It took all my strength of will and physicality to push one last time, and as I thrust my fist up violently, I broke the surface, and gasped for relief.

As I breathed in and out, on a rainy grey Sunday just a mere week ago, I recalled that dream, but instead of feeling my strength failing as I drowned, I felt at peace and listened to the rain on the roof like a thousand tiny tap dancers.

I’ve been home for five months now from the center, a place where I discovered my ability to be unyielding to pervasive struggles and powerful addictions. It was a practice in being emotionally, mentally, and physically resilient, not only for my sake, but for the sake of my family. In all the changes and unpredictability, never before had I needed to assimilate and learn so quickly, and adapting to environments became part of my new, transformed nature. I also learned to use my passions to promote healing, both for myself, and for those I love.

A friend once said that I am a daughter of grace, not a product of my problems, and the transforming processes of the last two years have taught me to thrive in my rejuvenated self, and I’m anxious for the promise of adventure in a future that’s free.