Sister

I am furious with you.

You did something to me that was unspeakable. You did something that was wrong in every way imaginable. You were my sister. How could you violate my trust in that way?
The one and only time in my life that I had enough courage to speak to you of what you did, you dismissed my words with furious certainty. You lied, you said you hadn’t done a thing, you blamed me and you shamed me. You told me that if anyone heard that claim come from my mouth, they would know that I was a sick, disturbed little girl.

To cover up your greatest sin – you broke me. You made sure that I was broken down enough to blame myself. You made sure that your words had forced me to feel your guilt towards myself. It worked. Every effort you made to squash my strength as well as any possibility of me healing from what you did, paid off.

No more. I will no longer blame myself for the evil that lives within you. I have fed into your guilt, shame and pain for years. I am too beautiful of a person to be bogged down by the forces of a pedophile.

On top of everything, you openly express your anger towards me – me. I’ve lived with your mistakes for years, yet you think you have a reason to be angry with me. What world do you live on? We have the same genes, I’m sickened to say, yet I didn’t grow up to be sick and twisted like you, thank God. How did you become so out of touch with reality?

In your reality, you apparently have a right to be mad at the world. You parents got a divorce, you grew up with a chronically suicidal mother, your brother’s an alcoholic. Guess what? My parents got a divorce too, my mother was constantly threatening to off herself despite my constant pleas with her. My brother, who I spent years caring for, is hopelessly alcoholic as well. I’ve been through just as much as you have. And in the real reality of the world, I’ve been through much more than you have.

You are so self-centered. I truly wonder how my nephews came from you. I’m furious with you for being a terrible mother to my beautiful nephews. I’m infuriated that you’ve given them a life as tumultuous as ours was. In your life, it’s not about your children it’s about you. Are you comfortable, are you angry, are you getting what you want? Your self-absorption makes me sick. You’ve become much worse than our mother ever was.

And now you’re mad at me. It must be nice to throw caution to the wind and indulge in infantile emotions that are borne from your own guilt. You’re angry with me because I refuse to play the game any more. I’ve spent years participating in polite conversations with you, so as to not disturb our family members and primarily, my nephews. I’ve helped you raise my nephews, I’ve quieted my own disgust. I pushed my memories of your sin so far back into my consciousness that they would only surface at night, when I attempted to sleep. I can no longer do it. I will no longer pretend that you didn’t shatter a very important part of my innocence and trust. You were my sister. How could you do it? And how could you work so hard to make me believe that it was my fault? You’re angry with me because I will no longer pretend. I refuse. This refusal makes you feel guilty. Somewhere deep inside you, you know what you did. Having to face the smallest morsel of guilt makes you feel irate.

Stew in that anger, stew in that guilt. You no longer have a part in my life. I will do whatever is needed to keep the strongest possible link with my nephews but you no longer exist. I now classify you how I should have always classified you – as a sick, self-centered and sad creature. And I don’t allow sick, self-centered, sad creatures into my life.