Wishing her a happy birthday

Today, my youngest brother and youngest sister are celebrating their birthday. I am nine years older than they are, so I remember when they were born – how snowy and sunny it was, how excited we were that it was a boy AND a girl, how I got to tell people at school that I was a big sister again. My mother was kind of overwhelmed with two little babies – the youngest of six children – and so my sister and I, as oldest and second-oldest, were each assigned care of one of the babies. She got the boy, and I got the girl.

My new little sister was the most beautiful infant girl you could imagine. She was perfectly proportioned, and she had big brown eyes and the sweetest little smile. And while her twin was curmudgeonly, plump and unsmiling, she more than made up for it with her cute little cries of “Ba! Ba!” and her happy, bouncy movements.

I won’t go into what happened during the intervening years. Partly it would take too long, partly it’s too sad, and partly I don’t want to talk about it here. But my sweet little sister is now an adult who has made too many poor choices, and she’s fallen under the yoke of several addictions.

What do you do with that? Clearly I have no clue. I used to think – naively – that you could “fix” people like her through unconditional love, tough love, providing a safe and calm space, sending them into rehab, sheer force of will, prayer or some combination of those things. I’ve tried them all, and they didn’t work. 

She lived with me for five months while I gave her room and board and she went to community college, her first experience there. I saw her making progress, doing well, having setbacks, overcoming them, eventually turning on me unexpectedly with shocking venom and hatred. She would apologize, promise to do better. She went to AA meetings, and I went with her. But behind my back she was emptying my liquor cabinet and lying about it. Eventually she called me horrible names, told my family what an awful person I was, and made me feel unsafe in my own home. I had reached my limit, and I was forced to turn her out.

I still love her, but I can’t have her near me, and this makes my heart ache. No, it’s more than an ache. She broke my heart, and my heart hasn’t been the same since. I no longer believe that love can conquer all.

I’ve learned that addicts won’t get help until they’re good and ready. It doesn’t matter if they have beautiful, deserving children who need them. It doesn’t matter if they have a loving spouse. It doesn’t matter if their family gives them a choice: either you go into rehab or we will not allow you into our homes again. It doesn’t matter if they have an elderly mother in frail health who’s worried sick about them.

They can’t hear anything except the siren call of whatever drug they crave. And that drug changes their personality, and their health, permanently.

I had a dream last night about my sister. She looked dreadful, like those ads warning you about the dangers of meth. But she was calm and listened to me as I told her about my worries for her, how I loved her, how I wanted my little sister back, the one with the sunny smile and the mischievous giggle. She listened carefully (the way she never does now) and said, “I know, Kathy. I know I’m going to die. But I just can’t help it. Thanks for loving me anyway.”

I hear little snippets about where she is and what she’s doing. None of it is good. And I’m so far away – not that it matters since I’m powerless anyway. But I can still pray for her, and I do. And that’s probably all. 

Happy Birthday, my troubled, beloved sister. Please come back someday.