last thursday

This isn't a post I wanted to make. I knew Thanksgiving was going to be a depressing outing for me (that familiar sinking feeling that precedes a dark spell has recently been sneaking into my bones) and Lisa, which is why I brought along some spiked eggnog, but I had no idea just how depressing last Thursday would become.

Unfortunately this time of year, which I used to enjoy, has become something to avoid. Spending time with the family is very stressful. And depressing. So, instead of carolers and mistletoe filling me with holiday cheer, they remind me of crass commercialism and the wondrous oblivion of youth – an oblivion I attempt to regain by plying myself with holiday "spirits."

For many weeks now my mom has been battling (what I presume to be) an intestinal infection. This illness, which has mystified three doctors, causes her to regurgitate practically everything she ingests. I won't share her other symptoms, but the mystery has left her frustrated. So frustrated that she is reluctant to see a new doctor because she fears he or she will be unable to diagnose her condition. After spending some time with my dad, Lisa and I go to my mom and step dad's place for some Thanksgiving grub. At the table mom attempts to eat some of the food she has prepared (she consumes about five bites); an hour later she's in the bathroom, regurgitating the small amount of food she ingested. Mom's situation made me sad, but I was depressed further upon watching and listening to sister. She seemed off, as if she was under the influence of something (not alcohol), which was not surprising considering her history of prescription drug abuse.

The following day mom calls me: all the cash from her purse is missing. Sister is obviously using again, stealing again, and the nightmare is beginning – again. This episode is much worse than past incidents because SHE HAS A THREE-YEAR-OLD SON. As my mom tells me (through tears) about finding the missing money, my face – no, my entire body flushes with blood, angry blood because the afternoon prior sister appeared so concerned about mom's condition; so concerned that she took $50 from her sick mother's purse – on Thanksgiving.

I'm finished with sister. (Things have never been the same between me and her since summer of 2005, when the depths of her addiction became apparent; subsequent interactions have been forced and awkward.) I can't tell you how many times during the past 48 hours I have, seemingly spontaneously, found myself in the midst of an internal monologue; a monologue because, even though I'm speaking to another person, my sister is awash in chemicals and incapable of comprehending the gravity of my words. And I'm telling her that she's gone, she's no longer a part of my life. But she doesn't care. She's lost to her addiction.

(Footnote: Mom called sister and told her about the missing money. Sister, of course, denied everything, and when sister visited mom yesterday to drop off her son, she acted as if nothing had happened. Completely oblivious.)

The recurring monologue has made me consider my options. If I call her and tell her she's out of my life, I'm afraid the words might push her over the edge, and she may hurt herself – or worse. Or, she may not care, not because she truly doesn't care, but because she's incapable of caring – an addict is concerned about only one thing: the source of his or her addiction. I wonder what would be the ultimate purpose of making such a call; I mean, who really benefits? Do I benefit by simply getting something off my chest? How would sister benefit? Her lying and deceitfulness is pathological, and I don't know how one person can penetrate such dark, compulsive behavior. I'm inclined to believe that such a phone call would leave me nonplussed.

Happy holidays.

xx

(Good news: I'm no longer experiencing pain in my left side.)