reflection

I have had over twenty-four hours to contemplate sister’s future for the following 9-18 months, and I remain convinced that the prison sentence is the best possible thing that could have happened. On this blog I have written literally hundreds, probably thousands, of words regarding my sister’s battle with addiction. I haven’t written so much about my actual sister as I have about her addiction, because when a person transmutes into an addict, she loses her identity, her personality – she becomes a ghost surrounded by the living. It is a terrifying experience to watch a loved one, especially a younger sibling, lose herself to the hell of addiction. And keep in mind that my experience has been somewhat muted due to the physical distance between me and my sister. Regardless of the degree of exposure, the experience is indeed horrifying, and I mean that literally: I was physically afraid of seeing my sister, sharing a room with her, even a phone conversation was an anxiety-ridden ordeal. It’s troubling because this person, this young woman who I can faintly recall as a newborn, is no longer recognizable. Her speech, her appearance, her actions—it’s no longer her. It’s a stranger, a disturbed stranger, and, to a certain degree, a real-life monster.

But I feel an unending pity for my sister. I want to love her again. I want her to come home. I want to hug you and know that it is you I am hugging and not some demented spirit.

But I’m angry at my sister. She was given the opportunity of drug court (an opportunity that not every drug offender is given, which is unfortunate and, in my opinion, immoral, but the “war on drugs” must continue, right?), and not three months later, destroyed her progress by leaving the scene of an accident. But my sister is a victim – a victim of her own circumstance, no doubt, but a victim nonetheless. Despite the haze that envelops an addict, they, occasionally, do experience moments of clarity, and during those brief breaths they recognize and detest what they have become. No one, regardless of his or her background, willingly becomes an addict. The addiction chooses them.

Tonight, my sister, and mother of a 3 ½ year-old boy, sits in jail, waiting, presumably, to be transported to a state prison. She’s surrounded by other criminals, but she sits in jail alone. And I know that as she sits there, the cold reality of her situation is becoming increasingly evident. “How did it get like this?” she must surely ask herself. Did she seek the chemical comfort of drugs because, as she once claimed, she was sexually molested by a childhood neighbor? Did that really happen? Who would fabricate such a horrible event? But sister, how do I, how can I separate fact from the avalanche of lies you have designed?

In the weeks leading up to her sentencing yesterday, my sister discovered and began regularly using crack. Yes, crack. Will prison be the “rock-bottom moment” she needs to shake herself clean? Or is she gone, forever? Is the damage irreversible?

I want my old sister to come back home. I want to hug her again. I want all of this to end. I want a new beginning.

xx