Please note: this post is written about mental illness. This is a personal account and is in no way glorifying mental illness or drug abuse.
Growing up a heroin addict’s sister is growing up in fear that one morning you’re going to wake up an only child. It’s the automatic twinge of fear you feel when your mom receives a call late at night or the doorbell rings. It’s the panic when you knock at her door and there is no answer, or checking her breathing late at night when she’s unresponsive. It’s being young and having friends that aren’t allowed to come over, because their parents know that the cops frequent your house.
It’s the same story you hear all the time: one child grows up in the shadows while the other requires all the attention. Things don’t happen this way because they’re meant to, it’s just the way it usually goes. Growing up with an addict as a sibling, you don’t want the attention- it’s usually just leftover anger, anyway. So you learn to live in the background. You are a wallflower who doesn’t need attention, because as you learn from your sibling, attention only means trouble.
It’s not like my sister was born doing drugs, no, she was born craving them; craving the escape, the high, the mischief. She never knew what she ached for, just that she ached. She can smell trouble from miles away, though she’s usually the one making it. My mom always said, “we could move her to Alaska, but she’d still find the one eskimo smoking pot in his igloo.”
They think of you as the angel, never pausing to see how her illness has affected you, too. They expect more from you, because they will never be able to see that you and her are so alike. That you ache. That some days you can’t look truth in the face, that somedays you cant look at yourself in the mirror.
Heroin destroyed my sister, and it destroyed the rest of us, too.
Here is to putting ourselves back together.