Although often perceived as a question, when figuring out HOW the best way to begin sharing my story as a sibling who has been affected by addiction, it seems that a statement with a strong, bold period at the end brings foreward more of the emphasis I’m looking for. “Where to begin” is a question… “What do I say” is a question… “Why have a I found myself starting a blog at the ripe hour of 2:34am when the demons keep me up at night” is a question… But “HOW” … that is a statement.
I can write. Sure. Anyone can if they tried. I’m not an expert. I don’t claim to be. But I know it’s an outlet. And rather than spending another night wrestling with my 100% cotton duvet, and counting how many times I flip my pillow instead of how many sheep have jumped over my head, I decided tonight to use my outlet. Here’s the great thing about outlets, they’re a power source. When you plug a lamp into them, a lightbulb turns on. And I guess that is my hope with this blog. To use it as an outlet and shed light on the fact that I understand that although your sibling may be the one dealing with addiction, you’re struggling in a different way (So. Many. Ways.). And once I’m plugged in, maybe it will bring others into the light as well.
To introduce myself before you all think I’m some crazy lady babbling on about light sources, I’m Kelsey. I’m a middle sister. Well, I was a middle sister. I’m now just an older sister. I’m no longer a little sister. That is an adjustment I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to. I lost my brother on July 9th, 2018. Just over 6 months ago.
Here is where the “How” part of my previous rant kicks in. HOW in the hell am I to move on from here? In my writing? In sharing my story? From being the girl who’s brother died? Going back to a normal life? What about the whole, HOW did I find myself here thing? I most certainly did not picture myself sitting here at 3:46 in the morning, picking out a themed template for my media platform to speak about my dead brother, and my sister who still struggles with shooting heroin into her veins. Flowers or a meadow are a little too cheery for the occasion, don’t you agree? But if I pick the edgey picture of a coffee mug, I don’t want people thinking I’m reviewing the best-damn-slap-me-on-the-ass-vanilla-caramel-double-espresso-with-2-pumps-of-snickerdoodle-latte at the hottest new hipster bar in the city, and have people choke on their precious butterscotch muffins when they read of the gruesome, sad reality that is my life. I decided to go with the theme “misty mountains.” Seemed most fitting.
HOW did things get this bad, in so many ways? Bad enough that I’m here in the first place, writing to you people. Bad enough that I haven’t gotten more than 3 hours of sleep a night since my brother passed, and am instead forced to lie awake and battle my subconscious reliving the images that come persistently in the night like a pesky fly, of his dying face gasping for breath over, and over, and over again. Bad enough that my sister just checked herself back into rehab for the 18th time. Bad enough that she relapsed under my nose, on my own bathroom sink, and I believed she wasn’t doing it.. again. Bad enough that you don’t feel you can tell anyone, in fear of being a burden, because the trauma is too much to put on your friends, not to mention embarrassing. And your parents!? Well forget it, that’s out of the question! How can you, the only normal one in your family, go bother your parents about your feelings, when they are both learning how to be alone, split up, renting separate houses, and barely making ends meet financially, all while they deal with the fact they no longer have a son, and are probably only months away at this point from possibly losing their daughter, and kissing her goodbye as she’s dropped off at yet another rehab facility. How dare you think to tell them that you’re upset! Don’t you see what they’re going through!?
So I keep my feelings in.
And now I write.
And I hope this is an outlet. Because I’ve been sitting in the dark too long.
A Sibling Estranged 