To my brother,
I’d been running away for so long, I’d forgotten what it’s like to stand still, to be in a place where I’m content. More importantly, I’d forgotten why I was running in the first place: you. I don’t think you even realize what you did was wrong, because you’re just that sociopathic. But you took something from me, you left scars all over me.
And for years I was running away from it, running away from the truth. Most of the time I avoided thinking about it, occasionally being lucky enough to forget it for stretches of time when I was running so fast all I could think about was the pounding of my heart and how much it hurt to breathe. All that running took so much energy, there was nothing left to deal with the rest of life’s troubles. They would pop up and I would tumble head-first into a sinking depression.
But then I would find a moment of peace and slow down for awhile. I would make friends, find hobbies, enjoy life. But when I stopped running, the scars would reassert themselves, starting the process all over again. I was in love, you know, with a young man. You can’t imagine how difficult being intimate is after the scars you left on me. And the running started again.
Next, a fresh, bright, promising moment I was content and happy with my life and I slowed to walk. But you ruined it. What did you do? Ask me to be a bridesmaid at your wedding. And my response? “Oh, I’d love to! Congratulations!” Do you know why was I drunk the whole day? Because I was mad as hell and afraid I would have a moment of weakness and tell someone. You don’t deserve to be happy. You deserve the mess you consistently made out of your life previously.
But now, you’ve really done it. You’ve spawned. Your wife is pregnant. I am forced to play the happy aunt when all I want to do is slap you and tell her that you really are the terrible person you’re always claiming not to be. You are no victim, you are a victimizer. I’m certain I can’t be the only one.
The real icing on the cake, though? I blame myself. I feel I should have been able to stop it sooner than I did. It’s my fault if you hurt anyone else because I was the first, and never told anyone. And I feel trapped, knowing that no one else can ever know. If I told anyone I loved it would make it back to my parents. And I just can’t do that to them. I can’t destroy their already fragile opinion of you. I can’t tear my family apart.
And yes, my family, not yours. They can sense it, you know, my feelings toward you. They sometimes ask me why I never call you, why we never get together. I do not feel any love towards you, and for this, too, I feel guilty.
So here I sit, more than 10 years after I finally put an end to it, and I can’t run anymore. I just can’t do it. My feet are tired, my lungs ache, and all I want to do is to sit and smell the roses. You’ve finally caught up with me. And I take the pills to stave off depression, and I try not to cry at my wonderful job, and I go out and drink too much with my friends.
But in my mind I am always alone. I am isolated in a way you cannot understand. You have cut me off from the rest of the world with this secret I cannot share. You are the one person I will never forgive, not “can never” for this is a choice I make daily. And I will hate you for it until the day I die.
-Your little sister