The light turns red. I stop my car behind the line and wait patiently. There's still plenty of time to get to class. It's then, out of the corner of my eye, that I think I see her. "Don't turn your head," I tell myself, but I do anyway. It's her.
She's standing on the corner, talking to the wind. She isn't dressed badly, not like the "street people" around her. Her hair is combed and dyed a natural shade of blonde. I let out a breath. At least her appearance is still neat, still normal. But for how long? If the past can foretell the future -- only a few more months. I tell myself that if you just saw her you wouldn't think there was anything wrong with her. It's only the odd things she says or shouts to the people passing by, or to herself, that make strangers pull their children closer. I comfort myself with this lie, this nonsense, and I almost believe it again. Incredible, after ten years of this, I still try to deny my sister's mental illness.
I sink down in my seat, hoping that she won't see me; that she won't call out. I don't want anyone to know she knows me.
"God, why did this happen to me, to my family, to her? And why can't we stop her deterioration? I can't, we can't force her to take her medication. In time, when the paranoia takes over and the hallucinations become constant, the cops will come and take her away; then she'll be hospitalized. Then she'll get the medication she needs. But why, God, does it have to get that bad? It humiliates her. I know it does. I know that someplace inside of her she is aware of all that is happening and it tears at her soul."
"Do you hear me, God, when I pray for her? Sometimes I fear that you're just standing by, watching. But other times, I know you're not. How else could she have come through the dangerous hours and places she's been? But God, it seems like such a waste. So much intelligence. So much creativity. So much willingness to love and be loved-all fragmented and twisted like a madman's art. If I had your power, I would make her illness go away."
The light changes to green. I hit the gas pedal a little harder than usual and speed across the intersection, seeking the safety of the next block and my own life. I put houses and trees between her and me. But it doesn't work; my thoughts are still back there on that corner with my sister.
"I know she's lonely, God. Maybe that's why she's on the street. Maybe she's trying desperately to make a connection with someone, something-trying to stay afloat, hoping that just being with people will give her a tiny hold on reality. Maybe, that's why she phones me so often and everyone else she knows-everyone else who will listen. I wish I could listen more, God. I do listen for a little while. But then, you know, she says those things, those mean, vicious things. She puts her finger in my open wounds. How does she do that? Why do you let her? What good does it serve? I get so mad and say things back. Then she gets angry. Funny, there's nothing delusional about her when she's angry. Does she do that on purpose? Is it another way to stay in touch? Sounds stupid, sound like there should be a better way, but it also sound possible. Human beings are so complex -- not at all like the people on television or in books."
I park the car and get out, slamming the door. "God, I hate her. I hate her because she makes every family gathering so uncomfortable. I hate her because of the vicious things she says. I hate her because...." The concrete at my feet leads to my class and my orderly and safe life, but I can't take that path just yet. I lean against the car and frowning, I bow my head.
"God, I hate her most of all because she shows me up for what I really am -- a phony. I don't love, do I? I trade affection. If people are kind to me I return their kindness. Oh, sometimes I lend them kindness first, but if they don't return it, it's goodbye. It's not supposed to be that way, God, is it? When you said love one another, you meant be committed to their welfare even if they aren't or they can't be committed to ours. My sister can't love me right now. Maybe, someplace inside her, she wants to, but I see that she can't."
I chew my lip as I lift my eyes from the ground to the great buildings of the college campus before me. Then, looking beyond them, I see the immense blue sky. I hesitate, afraid of my next thought, but then decide it is what I want.
"Lord, teach me to love her. Really love her. But Lord, help me to be wise in my loving. Don't let me think I can meet all her needs. They're too vast. Don't let me think that loving her will cure her. Instead let me be humble, satisfied to help in the small ways you show me. And don't let me expect gratitude. Remind me that it's enough to know that I am pleasing you. Lord, let me rest her present and her future in your hands. Help me to believe that all of this is fitting into your plan and when I forget these things, Lord squeeze my hand."
I adjust my books and start off for class. As I walk, I decide that when I get home I'll call my sister. This time I'll reach out for her.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Talking to the Wind: My Sister, My Struggle
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Monday, December 5, 2011
Talking to the Wind: My Sister, My Struggle
The light turns red. I stop my car behind the line and wait patiently. There's still plenty of time to get to class. It's then, out of the corner of my eye, that I think I see her. "Don't turn your head," I tell myself, but I do anyway. It's her.
She's standing on the corner, talking to the wind. She isn't dressed badly, not like the "street people" around her. Her hair is combed and dyed a natural shade of blonde. I let out a breath. At least her appearance is still neat, still normal. But for how long? If the past can foretell the future -- only a few more months. I tell myself that if you just saw her you wouldn't think there was anything wrong with her. It's only the odd things she says or shouts to the people passing by, or to herself, that make strangers pull their children closer. I comfort myself with this lie, this nonsense, and I almost believe it again. Incredible, after ten years of this, I still try to deny my sister's mental illness.
I sink down in my seat, hoping that she won't see me; that she won't call out. I don't want anyone to know she knows me.
"God, why did this happen to me, to my family, to her? And why can't we stop her deterioration? I can't, we can't force her to take her medication. In time, when the paranoia takes over and the hallucinations become constant, the cops will come and take her away; then she'll be hospitalized. Then she'll get the medication she needs. But why, God, does it have to get that bad? It humiliates her. I know it does. I know that someplace inside of her she is aware of all that is happening and it tears at her soul."
"Do you hear me, God, when I pray for her? Sometimes I fear that you're just standing by, watching. But other times, I know you're not. How else could she have come through the dangerous hours and places she's been? But God, it seems like such a waste. So much intelligence. So much creativity. So much willingness to love and be loved-all fragmented and twisted like a madman's art. If I had your power, I would make her illness go away."
The light changes to green. I hit the gas pedal a little harder than usual and speed across the intersection, seeking the safety of the next block and my own life. I put houses and trees between her and me. But it doesn't work; my thoughts are still back there on that corner with my sister.
"I know she's lonely, God. Maybe that's why she's on the street. Maybe she's trying desperately to make a connection with someone, something-trying to stay afloat, hoping that just being with people will give her a tiny hold on reality. Maybe, that's why she phones me so often and everyone else she knows-everyone else who will listen. I wish I could listen more, God. I do listen for a little while. But then, you know, she says those things, those mean, vicious things. She puts her finger in my open wounds. How does she do that? Why do you let her? What good does it serve? I get so mad and say things back. Then she gets angry. Funny, there's nothing delusional about her when she's angry. Does she do that on purpose? Is it another way to stay in touch? Sounds stupid, sound like there should be a better way, but it also sound possible. Human beings are so complex -- not at all like the people on television or in books."
I park the car and get out, slamming the door. "God, I hate her. I hate her because she makes every family gathering so uncomfortable. I hate her because of the vicious things she says. I hate her because...." The concrete at my feet leads to my class and my orderly and safe life, but I can't take that path just yet. I lean against the car and frowning, I bow my head.
"God, I hate her most of all because she shows me up for what I really am -- a phony. I don't love, do I? I trade affection. If people are kind to me I return their kindness. Oh, sometimes I lend them kindness first, but if they don't return it, it's goodbye. It's not supposed to be that way, God, is it? When you said love one another, you meant be committed to their welfare even if they aren't or they can't be committed to ours. My sister can't love me right now. Maybe, someplace inside her, she wants to, but I see that she can't."
I chew my lip as I lift my eyes from the ground to the great buildings of the college campus before me. Then, looking beyond them, I see the immense blue sky. I hesitate, afraid of my next thought, but then decide it is what I want.
"Lord, teach me to love her. Really love her. But Lord, help me to be wise in my loving. Don't let me think I can meet all her needs. They're too vast. Don't let me think that loving her will cure her. Instead let me be humble, satisfied to help in the small ways you show me. And don't let me expect gratitude. Remind me that it's enough to know that I am pleasing you. Lord, let me rest her present and her future in your hands. Help me to believe that all of this is fitting into your plan and when I forget these things, Lord squeeze my hand."
I adjust my books and start off for class. As I walk, I decide that when I get home I'll call my sister. This time I'll reach out for her.
She's standing on the corner, talking to the wind. She isn't dressed badly, not like the "street people" around her. Her hair is combed and dyed a natural shade of blonde. I let out a breath. At least her appearance is still neat, still normal. But for how long? If the past can foretell the future -- only a few more months. I tell myself that if you just saw her you wouldn't think there was anything wrong with her. It's only the odd things she says or shouts to the people passing by, or to herself, that make strangers pull their children closer. I comfort myself with this lie, this nonsense, and I almost believe it again. Incredible, after ten years of this, I still try to deny my sister's mental illness.
I sink down in my seat, hoping that she won't see me; that she won't call out. I don't want anyone to know she knows me.
"God, why did this happen to me, to my family, to her? And why can't we stop her deterioration? I can't, we can't force her to take her medication. In time, when the paranoia takes over and the hallucinations become constant, the cops will come and take her away; then she'll be hospitalized. Then she'll get the medication she needs. But why, God, does it have to get that bad? It humiliates her. I know it does. I know that someplace inside of her she is aware of all that is happening and it tears at her soul."
"Do you hear me, God, when I pray for her? Sometimes I fear that you're just standing by, watching. But other times, I know you're not. How else could she have come through the dangerous hours and places she's been? But God, it seems like such a waste. So much intelligence. So much creativity. So much willingness to love and be loved-all fragmented and twisted like a madman's art. If I had your power, I would make her illness go away."
The light changes to green. I hit the gas pedal a little harder than usual and speed across the intersection, seeking the safety of the next block and my own life. I put houses and trees between her and me. But it doesn't work; my thoughts are still back there on that corner with my sister.
"I know she's lonely, God. Maybe that's why she's on the street. Maybe she's trying desperately to make a connection with someone, something-trying to stay afloat, hoping that just being with people will give her a tiny hold on reality. Maybe, that's why she phones me so often and everyone else she knows-everyone else who will listen. I wish I could listen more, God. I do listen for a little while. But then, you know, she says those things, those mean, vicious things. She puts her finger in my open wounds. How does she do that? Why do you let her? What good does it serve? I get so mad and say things back. Then she gets angry. Funny, there's nothing delusional about her when she's angry. Does she do that on purpose? Is it another way to stay in touch? Sounds stupid, sound like there should be a better way, but it also sound possible. Human beings are so complex -- not at all like the people on television or in books."
I park the car and get out, slamming the door. "God, I hate her. I hate her because she makes every family gathering so uncomfortable. I hate her because of the vicious things she says. I hate her because...." The concrete at my feet leads to my class and my orderly and safe life, but I can't take that path just yet. I lean against the car and frowning, I bow my head.
"God, I hate her most of all because she shows me up for what I really am -- a phony. I don't love, do I? I trade affection. If people are kind to me I return their kindness. Oh, sometimes I lend them kindness first, but if they don't return it, it's goodbye. It's not supposed to be that way, God, is it? When you said love one another, you meant be committed to their welfare even if they aren't or they can't be committed to ours. My sister can't love me right now. Maybe, someplace inside her, she wants to, but I see that she can't."
I chew my lip as I lift my eyes from the ground to the great buildings of the college campus before me. Then, looking beyond them, I see the immense blue sky. I hesitate, afraid of my next thought, but then decide it is what I want.
"Lord, teach me to love her. Really love her. But Lord, help me to be wise in my loving. Don't let me think I can meet all her needs. They're too vast. Don't let me think that loving her will cure her. Instead let me be humble, satisfied to help in the small ways you show me. And don't let me expect gratitude. Remind me that it's enough to know that I am pleasing you. Lord, let me rest her present and her future in your hands. Help me to believe that all of this is fitting into your plan and when I forget these things, Lord squeeze my hand."
I adjust my books and start off for class. As I walk, I decide that when I get home I'll call my sister. This time I'll reach out for her.
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