I feel like I’ve missed out on a lot of things that I shouldn’t have missed out on. Mainly, I really don’t know who my sister was. I’ve been thinking about her, but the only things I can think of are small, insignificant moments. It’s like trying to figure out what the picture is on the puzzle with only one piece. I only know some facts: she played softball and was on the swim team (I think?), she shared a room with M, she had a kid before she should have, and she died before she should have.
I remember S being worried and crying when I swallowed that penny and almost choked. I wanted her to stop crying, to stop worrying. She hugged me, then. I remember when she left me to hang out with her friends when she was supposed to babysit me, and how freaked out I was at being alone. I remember her wearing her hair in a loose bun for the majority of the time, and that she was really pretty. I remember calling her Pug, ‘cause that was her nickname. We even got her a beanie baby pug one time. I wonder, would we still call her Pug? Pug, Banana Bread, Shells, Cheese Fry.
Being the youngest means that the picture was there, and I just colored it in, like making the ocean red and the sky orange. Just colors, no reasoning behind the choices. In such a way, I sort of stumbled around in the dark, and the world was the way it was. So I didn’t see all the problems, the seams in the tailored smiles. Sure, Ma was in the hospital but she’d be all right. Pug’ll be fine, she loves you guys. She went away for awhile, but she’ll be back.
I was playing with my train set when we got the call. Dad answered the phone. She was dead, he said. She shot herself in the mouth while auntie uncle and (other) sister were away. It doesn’t really hit you until they’re gone. And then you realize you can’t see them smile anymore. You can’t hear them laugh. You can’t hug them. What was once close and easy and permanent is suddenly torn away from you, and there’s no going back to a previous game save. That’s it.
When people I know talk so casually about killing themselves, I don’t think they fully realize what that means. How many lives that will affect. How many hearts they will break. They don’t realize how painful it is to be the one stuck here while they’re gone. It hurts. And it never stops hurting. It just becomes a dull throb that you learn to live with. And if you don’t? Well, then you become another heart-break. Another funeral home with the smell of stale flowers and death, of finger sandwiches and tears and bland conversation topics. Everyone trying to cover up the bad. Don’t look here, it’s depressing! Look over there, we’ll just pretend that this didn’t happen. Sanity first. Being insane just causes more headaches. Besides, that’s what psychiatrists are for. So the next time I hear someone talking of suicide, please please tell me you’re joking, even if that’s a horrible joke. And if they ever go through with it, know that I’ll be here, and I’ll be unhappy. Of course, this goes for me too. I have to realize that I have an affect as well, and no matter how tempting the easy way out is, it’s not an option. I have too many people to take care of over here.