Mourning the Sisters I Never Had

The last two days have been really hard.

I’m reading a narcissistic abuse memoir called Believing Me by Ingrid Clayton.

I thought that I would be comforted by reading someone else’s experience, or maybe less lonely–gain more insight. I’m on a quest right now to find out as much information about everything as I possibly can, in the hopes of becoming less and less confused. I want to fully understand perfectly. I’ve been so confused for my whole life. Every part of my life up until now has been covered in a weird fog. I though that’s just how life is. Shrouded in mystery and at times filled with nonsense. I thought that part of life was just accepting that things never make sense, and just rolling with it.

I was enthralled by the book until I got about half way through when something weird happened. I started getting angry and jealous.

I was angry because her trauma story is less traumatic than mine. I felt shame for feeling that anger because I would never wish anyone to have more hurt. I felt it was immature and childish of me to compare stories.

But even worse was the jealousy. I was jealous because she still managed to come out of it extremely successful. Her abuser paid for her to go to Berkelee in Boston. Fucking Berklee College of Music. Paid for.

When I was 15 I was walking my ass in feet of snow to the McDonald’s at 16 and Mound to make $5.50 an hour so I could give my mom money to help with the bills. One time we were arguing about money because I had given her $20 and she was drunk as usual. I said something like “how do you have money for vodka?” And she said “Oh, it’s barely $10 a week,” which was bullshit anyways. But it felt like I was going to work to help her to NOT take care of me or my sisters. She would just lay on the couch wasted, our filthy apartment filled with moldy pots and dirty towels. I remember her response clear as day. “Don’t I get to have something for myself?” she asked through sobs. My mother was always sobbing. Not crying. Sobbing. Boo-hoo, shoulder bouncing sobs. I don’t remember a lot of tears from her, just sobs. I can hear the sound of it even now as I type.

Don’t I get to have something for myself?

The fucked up thing about it is that it worked. I immediately felt awful. Mama works so hard and has been through so much and she deserves to have something for herself, and that something was her precious vodka. I didn’t know at the time that could have been literally anything else–painting, baking, writing, literally any kind of hobby. I didn’t think of it at the time because I’d only had a job for a few months and I was barely 15 years old, but why didn’t she have work friends? I’ve never had job where I didn’t have at least one co-worker friend.

When I was 18 I moved out as fast as I could because my mom used to sob all night long and one of the reasons was that she didn’t have her own bedroom. She’d say, “How can I be happy when I don’t even have my own space?” So I thought if I moved out, she could have my bedroom. Do you know what she did? She filled my room with shit and kept sleeping on the couch. I also found out later that she told my sisters I’d just left them there, abandoned them. I moved out thinking it would make my mom happier so she could be a better mom to the girls and she used that as a new reason why she was so depressed and dysfunctional. They still resent me for that to this day.

So of course because I was just a teenager with literally no money and no life skills, I eventually dropped out of college. I couldn’t afford it. I worked all night and then went to school all day and had to do homework every moment between that. I didn’t sleep. I used to take that gas station speed truckers take. I remember they were called Yellow Jackets. Of course the bottom was bound to fall out. Meanwhile the author of this book is going to Berklee for free. She said it was devastating because her step father set her and her brother up in one of his condos and didn’t make him–the golden child–pay rent. She didn’t even have to find a place to live. She just had a place ready to go. God fucking damn it. Oh, you didn’t have to pay for music college and your step dad set you up with a condo but only made one of you pay rent? How tragic. I hate myself for thinking such ugly thoughts.

I was even more jealous though because she and her siblings were still bonded and could talk to each other about their abuse. When her abuser was abusive, she could talk to her brothers about it and they would be like, “ugh, that asshole! I’m so sorry.”

I don’t have that. My sisters hate me. My youngest sister hasn’t spoken to me in almost a year and a half and my middle sister has been stonewalling me for years until a few weeks ago when I finally got the balls to ask her why, and she’s finally taken the leap to the silent treatment.

When I lost my father that was the biggest pain I had ever known. I loved him so much. He was the only person on this planet who listened to me, who offered advice, and called it straight. He was the only person in the whole world who understood me.

But losing my sisters hurts worse somehow. It hurts worse because they’re not dead. They’re alive and well and just fine carrying on without me, without knowing my son. I think about them every day.

What I’m realizing more and more recently is that the relationship I thought I had with them never actually existed, so in a way, I’m actually mourning the sisters I never had. I thought they could see me for who I really am, but they can’t and they never did. Mom blamed me for her behavior since they were little, much like how she blamed Dad for her behavior when I was little. Once he wasn’t around anymore to blame, the target fell on me. They’ve been brainwashed just like I was brainwashed. They’re cruel just like mother is cruel.

And so that’s why I’m jealous of the author.

I wish I had escaped with a top tier college degree and my relationship to my sisters in tact, but I have nothing to show. Just bad decision after bad decision. Mistake after mistake.