Personally Speaking: An older sister’s story, from hurt to hope
By Brooke Gentry
I am the first to admit that I had a wonderful childhood — more privileged than some, and full of the love, joy, support, and education that any parent hopes to provide their child.
And yet, as my younger sister and I moved into the complex realm of pre-adolescence, signs of mental health issues rose to the surface. For me, my mental illness culminated in behaviors that many parents might expect from their struggling teens. While I acknowledge that I engaged in risky behaviors to cope with my depression, my experience was primarily teenage angst, greatly differing from my sister’s.
Her burgeoning mental health issues took the form of symptoms that were foreign to my parents and me. From a young age, she exhibited strange, socially unacceptable behaviors. Her room was a treasure trove of photos of my friends that I hadn’t noticed were missing, clothing taken from the closets of others, and various personal effects, stolen and forgotten – possessed almost like a crow collecting shiny objects.
Despite these signs, we mostly assumed that she was a bit odd. However, shortly after I left for college, one incident in particular made it clear that she needed help. She and my dad had come to visit me on campus in Maine. As we said goodbye, I felt that the visit had gone wonderfully and that we had bonded more than we had in years. This feeling would prove to be short-lived.
Just fifteen minutes after they drove away, my dad called to tell me that my sister had “freaked out,” scrambled to the back of the vehicle, and called the police on him. She told them that her boyfriend had kidnapped her and was with her on the way to the airport. Her boyfriend and the airport she had mentioned to the police were hundreds of miles away. Nonetheless, an Amber Alert was immediately issued in Maine. Small planes scoured the roads in search of a kidnapped teenager – one that did not exist. The police pulled over my dad, and both he and my sister were interviewed separately. During her interview, my sister’s 911 call was played aloud. She stared back at the officers blankly. “I’m not sure why I’m here,” she said. “That isn’t me on the phone.”
As a family, we were completely floored. Sure, she had struggled in the past, but never with delusions. As she aged, my parents learned to anticipate a threat of suicide following the end of every one of her relationships. They grew familiar with long periods of intense energy and fascination with a new venture or project — followed by long periods of an unproductive, depressive state.
While my parents adjusted to my sister’s behavior, I grew resentful. I resented my sister for her cruelty, narcissism, and inability to stop causing problems in what I saw as our overly supportive family. Several years ago, I reached my breaking point and found myself unable to tolerate her behavior any longer. I lashed out and have been viewed as the enemy in her eyes ever since.
Since then, we have not had a relationship, so I have relied on tidbits from my mom to make sure that she is doing okay. According to my mom, my sister thrived at the beginning of college, achieving stellar grades, holding down multiple internships, and generally excelling in life. It was only after receiving a call from the university that my parents learned she had not been seen in class or at her internships in weeks. Instead, she was holed up in her apartment. Ultimately, she took time off from school for mental health reasons.
During that time, she lived with my parents and often took her emotions out on them. Her anger, frustration, and lack of empathy would translate into cruel jabs — picking at the weakest, most insecure parts of those that loved her until they bled. Eventually, my parents decided that they could not live with her anymore. They bought her a plane ticket back to New York, but she was removed from the plane before it took off due to hysterics.
At that point, my parents were at a loss. They considered learning more about how to temporarily hold her in an institution where she could get the care she needed.
Thankfully, I know my sister is doing better now, and I’m happy about that. But for me, it’s hard not to just be happy for my parents, instead of happy for her. Being the sibling of someone with SMI feels particularly difficult, because you lack the limitless, unconditional love and understanding that a parent may have for their child.
My frustration and resentment towards my sister for making our lives painful and complicated overshadowed the sisterly love that I felt for a long time — and the guilt that comes with the resentment of someone struggling with mental illness is another thing.
That having been said, the roles we play in supporting those with SMI matter. They diverge, change, and evolve depending on our position in the person’s life. Now, I feel love and forgiveness towards my sister. I don’t know if I need to forgive her or if she needs forgiveness — none of her actions were her fault, no matter how hurtful. It took me time to see that, and I know it will take more time still to repair our relationship. Though my sister and I still have a long way to go, I’m grateful that my role at Treatment Advocacy Center helps me to feel more equipped every day to accept and understand her —and know that she is not defined by her illness.