A Letter for My Sister
June 1st, 2020 -- 5:15PM
I've come back to this opening line for the past 1.5 years though every time I did, I was never really sure what to say or how to organize my thoughts. Every few months, I'd pick up this journal -- stare at the words and set it down again. To be honest, I still don't know what to say but I think it's time. So, here goes.
We somehow got to a point in our lives where I dreaded talking to you. In fact, I couldn't even stand to hear about you from Mom + Dad. If I didn't know what was going on -- then I couldn't feel all the emotions I usually did: anger, confusion, sadness, but most of all -- helplessness. I could protect myself, I guess -- bury myself in the obligations of school and casually continue to think that my friend- and me-centric views would erase anything that was going on with you. It was selfish, I suppose -- immature. I'm embarrassed to say that I felt relief every holiday I knew you wouldn't join us for. What kind of person thinks like that? I spent so many years not talking to you and when you were gone, that's all I wanted to do.
When I heard that you were gone, everything stopped. I know I was still physically on the phone -- saying something, I'm sure -- but my mind was entirely blank. I remember hanging up the phone and there being a delay of a minute before it really hit me -- and sort of all at once it did. It was never really surprising that it happened but more so when. It's odd to say that I kind of knew this would come one day but resigned to convincing myself we would go on like this for years still, skating by. Pictures of us together -- when I couldn't have been older than four years old (you were fourteen) -- seem like a foreign time. These pictures have happiness, hope, and love -- posed or candid, I'm not sure. But it's a time I can't remember.
The coming days were anything but normal. I felt lost -- like a kid again -- like all of a sudden all these roles I had come to fill (doctor, friend, listener, joker, empath, daughter, whatever) evaporated and I didn't know what to do or how to be for the people you left behind. For the first time in ages I didn't really know how to be helpful. More than that, I didn't really know how to feel when I had to give everyone else their space to do so. I guess I thought I couldn't -- or maybe it was better if I didn't. The only thing I said: "I couldn't fix her."
Time passed, your birthday rolled by, seasons changed and there seemed a day when being reminded of you didn't sting so much. I could talk about you to someone else and I didn't feel as hollow. But the more I remembered you, the more I did want to talk to you. I had and have so many questions that presumably will sit unanswered until I see you again. The more questions I had, the more I realized I never understood you and for that I'm sorry.
I guess what I really have is a stockpile of questions -- but one I've been adding to since I was six years old -- you were sixteen. I wish I could've asked you about school dances, bullies, make-up, and jobs. That thing that exists between sisters -- inside jokes, a common understanding of parental neuroses -- I wish we had that. If we communicated more, would you have told me what you were struggling with? Would that have made a difference? I've only ever wanted to understand -- and I just never could. I found the drawings in your folders, the notebooks in the drawer, the report cards stashed away, and even the letters and cards from others -- but I still didn't and don't get it. That's not a fault of yours but almost certainly a fault of mine.
I know you cared about me and sometimes I think you didn't tell me things because you were trying to protect me, right? Whenever we did talk, I never felt like anything more than a child -- and perhaps I resented you for that. I could have been a better sister to you -- would you have told me how? Did you think I hated you? Did you think I was ashamed of you? Did you resent me for something? On some level, I think I know that you were proud of me -- as it turns out you told others about my job in New York and life in medicine when I wasn't even sure you knew. I don't know if I did this consciously, but I hid you for so long -- all the bad --- and I would be lying if I said this didn't inspire guilt. I think that was the wrong thing to do. I spend so much of my life being an advocate for others -- but why was I never one for you?
Are you okay? Are you at peace? Do you think about the rest of us? I won't even pretend to know what it must have felt like when our parents lost you. In reality, I'm sure they felt they had been losing you for years. There was a short time that was really good for you -- and us, as a family. You had a job, maintained an apartment, managed your money, and even joined us for dinner on occasion. Is it naïve to hope that that's what your life is like now?
Sometimes I think about a world where you and your family (if that's something you wanted) would have us all over for Thanksgiving dinner -- and our parents would be pre-occupied with the grandchildren and the three of us would catch each other up on our own lives as siblings do. And after Thanksgiving, we'd do gifts on Christmas, have matching (though hideous) pajamas, maybe ring in the New Year, and celebrate every other milestone together. What I struggle with the most is that this part of our family can never exist -- not really. It'll always be different. Not bad, just different.
Maybe I'm just making up for lost time but I hope this reaches you somehow. I'm sorry our relationship was strained and I am sorry I couldn't help you. Though I'm sad we won't have another 40+ years to right the ship, I'm grateful for the lessons you did teach me in your short time. You may never have sat me down and walked me through my homework, taught me how to braid my hair, or baked with me -- but you taught me enough.
I started this letter because I wanted to talk to you -- and I guess there's no reason I can't continue. So maybe when I go to dream tonight, send me a sign that you got this.
Love,
Nilima
Nilima
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