Sarah

Thanks, did I mention I have a dead sister?

Meeting new people has been harder lately. I incorporate a lot of things from my sister into my life—I have a tattoo in her honor, I wear fingerprint jewelry, I have some of her clothes, and I have things from her throughout my home. I don’t think about it on a daily basis, but I can see how for some people it would seem like a lot.

Recently I invited someone over to my apartment, and the first three things they complimented about my decor all tied back to her. I could feel by the third time I opened my mouth to explain its tie to my sister that it was offputting. I suddenly felt an intense shame about having made someone else uncomfortably by being so honest about the amount of her presence in my surroundings. I should have lied. I should have just said “thank you” and not explained.

This new friend I was trying to make is probably not going to talk to me again, because I made myself “the girl with the dead sister.” Compliment my nail color? “Thanks, it was my sister’s favorite color; I got them in honor of her upcoming birthday.” Compliment my tattoo. “Thanks, it’s in remembrance of my sister.” Compliment an artwork in my apartment. “Thanks, it’s actually a band tee of my sister’s favorite band.” Compliment my kitchen knife display. Dead sister. Compliment cute childhood photo. Dead sister. Dead sister. Dead sister.

What am I supposed to do? When I imagine the interaction all over again and pretend I didn’t mention her, it wrecks me. These ripples of her presence through her things, the gifts to me, or the tributes since then are all I have left. But it also still feels like it’s my job to not make it so fucking unbearable for people around me—especially new people. Do I have to choose between allowing her to exist in the conversational space of my life or not pushing most people away?

A milestone birthday for my sister

Instagram’s algorithm started showing me 30th birthday content the other day. Which cuts deep, because in just a few days, my sister should have been turning 30. The joyful parties, jokes about being “over the hill,” and one reel of a girl lying in a fake coffin while her friends and family all eulogized her as her youth was gone all seemed like blips in my day, but tonight they’re all rising to the surface. I hadn’t realized they were stewing away in my subconscious.

Instead I find myself doing the same thing I always do—turning emotions to numbers, overthinking ideas that have no start or end, and finally accepting I have to just sit in my sadness.

30 years old. My sister made it 95% of the way there. A couple of years ago, I had started wheels in motion to fly my sister out to where I live and celebrate this milestone with her. Now I am sitting in my apartment crying about why I wanted to wait for an arbitrary milestone instead of impulsively just doing it the moment the thought crossed my mind. There was supposed to be more time.

My relationship with time and the future is still fraught. Sometimes I am find myself making assumptions the old version of me would have, in the Before, planning life like it’s a given that the runway is decades long still. And then I’ll suddenly and inexplicably find myself unable to feel motivation to do something I “should” do because the heavy feeling of wondering “what’s the point?” takes over. Any one of us could be dead tomorrow. Or not. I go back and forth on which one is actually a scarier prospect.

I haven’t quite figured out yet what I will do on my sister’s birthday, but I won’t let it pass by. But it will be a lonely celebration, because there is no one within several thousand miles of me that will even know what I will be walking through that day. I could, obviously, tell some people, but there are several people who could know but forgot, and I don’t have it in me to pull myself back open to tell anyone else. Not this year. Maybe next.

Happy early birthday, little sister. I’d give just about anything to hug you one more time. I’ll celebrate the fact that now for 30 years the idea of you has existed, and that’s still a beautiful thing. ❤

Where grief ends and other problems begin

I never know anymore whether I should attribute struggles to the grief, or whether they’re normal struggles I would have faced in the alternate universe where my sister was still alive. All I know is I am hurting—a lot—and I feel like it’s starting to suffocate me again. The melancholy filter over everything is back, but I feel guiltier about it now. Like I’m not supposed to be this way again, and so unlike last year when I thought I could freely tell people, I am now trying to hide it away, pretend I’m okay to everyone.

Except I’m not okay. I’ve come home for lunch every day the last week to lay in my bed and sob. I’ve let my inner monologue spiral into a twisted, ugly mantra of how worthless I am, how no one should have to stoop so low as to even hear about my problems because why would it matter to them? About how alone I am and always will be.

Is this the grief? Or am I also have some kind of early midlife crisis now? Or am I just depressed (maybe even the properly diagnosable clinical kind)? Or—and my inner voice favors this one—am I just being weak and melodramatic and causing my own problems?

And the thing that keeps stabbing me in the chest every time is a single, echoing thought: I wish I could talk to my sister about this.

Does it get better? I don’t know, but you learn to survive

Three months ago I wrote to someone on a forum who asked me whether sibling loss gets better or easier. I had forgotten about my response entirely, but that person recently resurfaced and started that conversation back up. The answer is still valid, and my new self is still forming. I think that might be true for the rest of my life.

“I think the simple (but lacking) answer is that for almost everyone, yes, it gets ‘easier.’ I don’t like to frame it that way, because it’s just different now. I am functional again—there was a long stretch there where taking care of my basic needs was hard, my cognition was horrible, etc. (I wrote about some of that in my post history, if you want to look.)

“I think what I would say is that my brain, like many people’s brains, is designed to push us to survive, and that has meant it has learned ways to not keep the loss at the forefront of my mind. When each and every thought is not exclusively about my sister, I am able to live life, pursue things, focus, live. But there’s still a hole. It takes very little for me to slip right back into the sadness. I have made my own eyes well up right now as I type this and think about how easy it is to bring myself to this point.

“I still miss her terribly. I have built small rituals into my days now that are no longer conscious decisions, and therefore also tucked away just below that level of awareness. I wear a necklace with her fingerprint every day, for example. This used to be an overt ritual for myself that I would make sure I do. Now it’s just as natural as brushing my teeth or putting on shoes. So there are a lot of signs of the wound becoming closed with scar tissue, to use a common metaphor. Is that better or easier? I’m not sure. But I’m not in danger of bleeding out anymore. I am now learning to move the injured parts of me through the world with the encumbrance of the scar tissue, though. Every day I get a little more skilled at being this new version of me.”

I might be a worse person after my sister’s death

That title may be sensational, but I am less than what I once was, and I can’t pretend it isn’t true.

I’m way worse at responding to text messages and emails, sometimes taking days to reply.

I am flakier than I have ever been in my life.

I am lazier than I used to be.

I’m less hopeful that things will “just work out.”

I am more of a hermit than I was before. Not because socializing is especially draining, but the desire for it ebbs much more than it flows.

I don’t have a bow to tie this up with, that’s it.

I’m sadder more often than ever before.

I guess this is who I am now.