Three Years gone

“Those you trust the most can steal the most.” - Lawrence Lief

One day my boyfriend and I got everything ready to sit down and watch one of our favorite movies. (Drop Dead Gorgeous by the way, great, funny movie, check it out) We’d watched it on one of our first nights spent together, huddled in my freezing, bug riddled, purple basement bedroom. And then when he went to get the movie, it wasn’t there. So of course being me I’m sure when I go over I’ll find it, because it’s probably a case of him looking with his eyes closed. One glance over the shelf of DVD’s, and I think to myself, “Oh I just must have missed it” and look again. Second sweep over the shelf and I ask my boyfriend if maybe we lent it to someone. I start to get aggravated, moving things around. And then it hits me. It’s was stolen.

Normally this would be a shocker, but to me it isn’t in the slightest. Because it’s been gone for at least three years. Even three years after I moved out of my parent’s house, where all of this went on, I am still realizing on a fairly regular basis the extent of which my sister’s drug addiction has affected me. The things I thought I still had, that I worked so many grease and sweat covered hours to earn measly minimum wage to be able to purchase. The joy I took in being able to support my interests on my own. So many of those things are long gone.


And it’s not even really the things I mourn. It’s the effects of having things stolen from right under your nose on a day to day basis and not being able to do anything about it. In the long term, that changes you. It has certainly changed me. The questioning was the hardest. Questioning her, questioning myself when she denied it every time. “Maybe I lent it to someone, left it somewhere. Maybe I didn’t even own it in the first place. I’m sure it will turn up eventually.” There are so many thoughts that just race through your mind. I think for a while there, there was some comfort in denying that she could be stealing from me. There is not much worse than the moment when you realize someone you love so much could be stealing your worldly belongings. Someone once told me that once you experience someone stealing from you, you will never be the same. That personal invasion is so great; it shakes you to your core.


For the longest time I haven’t wanted anything to do with money. I don’t want to earn money, I don’t want to spend money, and I still don’t even want to carry any more than five dollars and change in my purse. I don’t even want a bank account. I moved out of the city, and even though I’m at least a twenty-five minutes away from her at all times, I still feel the need to hide things away in my apartment. Now, when I’m waiting for the bus, I check my pockets every couple of minutes for the bus pass that I know is there, I check my purse for my I.D. every morning. I have a wonderful apartment, but I don’t like having very many people inside of it. I watch them all intently and there have been a fair number of people that have been here once, but no longer pass through my porch door because of the way they manhandled my things. Maybe that is paranoid, but I now feel like it’s about being safe. My boyfriend and I have made this apartment our safe haven, and I am not willing to jeopardize that for anything. I know where everything is, and I’m overly cautious with my money and valuables.


I don’t know when things will change. I don’t know when they will get better. When I will finally be able to worry less, or not be scared to carry my phone bill payment in my purse for the five minute bus ride to the phone company. Sometimes I have a good run, where nothing bothers me. When I feel empowered to feel better, and safer. But unfortunately something usually happens to remind me why I felt like this for so long, which just pulls me right back in. But I’ve got a semi-plan. Next time I decide to watch a movie, I’m picking right off the shelf.

The following is a link to one of the only sites I've found personally that addresses drugs and theft in the family, even if it is only a small mention. Drugs In The Family

Sisters...

She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink. Some days, she is the reason you wish you were an only child. ~Barbara Alpert

I have thought a lot about this. I’ve tried to come up with any other way but this to describe it to those around me, because I know that it must be terribly difficult to understand. My sister is dead. She died a couple years ago. I haven’t seen her since. Her body is still here, her mind, well that’s debatable. But the sister that I knew, loved, and constantly bickered with because we had the same shoe size, she’s not here anymore. Drugs killed my sister.

Oh, there’s a shell, there’s proof every once and awhile that she was real and that I didn’t imagine her, but she doesn’t even still have the same memories that I do. I remember sitting on the front cement stairs, sun beating down around us, sticky vanilla ice cream melting down all over us. She doesn’t remember that. I remember the day I brought up a memory that had been one of her favorites, something she had always brought up every time we went on a trip down memory lane and she didn’t know what I was talking about. I remember I laughed, thinking she must be joking around with me, until I looked up and saw the confusion on her face and realized that no, she really didn’t remember anymore.

How do you mourn the death of someone you loved so dear when there are still some small reminders of who they once were? When she laughs with everything she has, I see who she once was. Everything else is different. We don’t fight anymore. I can’t believe I miss bickering. If only we could go back to the days when pulling hair and throwing things at each other could make everything alright. Her hugs have changed. Her eyes have changed. She hurts those she loves, maybe because she can’t seem to love herself.

Each time I see a glimmer of what she once was, something in my heart explodes with hope. I wish I could turn it off some days, because it is not often very long before something happens to prove to me that she is still out of control. She’ll steal something from her family, she’ll have a fit so huge you’d never believe it came out of one person, and then she’ll call you to the dirt for confronting her with doing something wrong.

So how do you live your life with a life size reminder of what you’ve lost? I’ve lost a sister. I’ve lost that connection that comes with having grown up the same way. The same base experiences. I’ve lost that silent camaraderie that comes with having a sister. Just in the most basic sense of the word. I haven’t quite figured that one out yet. All I know is that some days hearing her laugh fills me with joy, and other days, it fills me with sadness. Some days I could kill just to hug her, only to do so and realize that she doesn’t know how receive my love anymore. In these moments I mourn her more than ever.

Dave Matthews- Sisters