Counting Sheep, Losing Sleep

The first couple of days felt still. My sister's absence at home caused a void in every meal, conversation, and restless night. I fell into a numb routine of waking up, going to school, and coming home to lock myself in my room. At the time, ignoring everything felt almost as if it fixed what was trapped inside me. 

Of course for my mother, it was another story. She allowed herself to release all of what she felt inside her. She would cry, scream, panic, and for days and days it still wasn’t enough. There was always more. She spent every waking hour researching, questioning, calling police stations, hospitals, and eventually hiring a detective. Finally, this got her somewhere, and the last known sighting of my sister came forward. She was seen waiting at a bus stop early in the morning, on the day she went missing. But why? Where to? 

This lead went cold. Days turned into weeks with no new sighting, sign, or message from my sister. Any update or speculation my mom noted was forwarded to me. I’d be in class, feel a vibrate that read,

 “Mom: Text Message,” then

 “Mom: Text Message (2),” and so forth. 

I would think,

“Is this it? Has she come home? Was she found somewhere? What if it’s bad news? There’s no way. This isn’t fair.”

I would constantly need to excuse myself from class to breathe or sigh, louder than what would be socially acceptable in a room where no one knew what was happening. 

I would refrain from explaining my situation to friends, to teachers, to strangers. I always looked at my situation through the eyes of judgment. My sister was going through pain much worse, entrapping her freedom and will, with no fair reason why she was given this disorder. So what would it be of me to complain or ask for pity? 

This only backfired as I became short with those who cared for me. I became a bottle of pressure that bursts with every tap from the outside. 

I think what made things escalate in my mind was knowing my sister’s past, and understanding that history often repeats itself. My sister had run into trouble her entire life and it only worsened as she aged. Arguments became police reports, and sneaking out became days of running away. She’d always return safe, but with a greater desire to one-up the danger before. 

Five weeks had passed and we finally got word that she was found. Given the condition she was in, the police admitted her to the nearest hospital an hour away from us, to evaluate her. She had not bathed or eaten in what was assumed to be a week at least. She had lost over 15 lbs. and carried scars of her troubles in blisters and swollen ankles. Further testing concluded what was in her system and recommended a treatment center.  

I spoke with my sister over the next several days. Time went on and so did her need to comply. She never detailed where she was or who she was with during her absence. My heart yearned for her to confide in me in search of advice I could’ve hopefully given to her. That wasn’t the case. Only assumptions were really made by any of us. She acted just as she did months and even days before she ran away. She had no idea the extent of her actions and the pain it caused others. Her lack of empathy would infuriate me. 

It wasn’t until later I accepted this wasn’t about me. This wasn’t up to her. This wasn’t her fault. It’s not that she didn’t care, it’s that she couldn’t understand it herself. 

This is a message to anyone who is suffering or for those who have a loved one that is. The road might be rough but the journey is always worth it. My sister has taught me so many valuable lessons in this life and shaped me into a better human because of it.