Eulogy, Late
Sep. 25th, 2023 08:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jakebeToday would have been my sister's 41st birthday. But she died on April 30th, 2017 from an overdose of fentanyl. She was one of 25,000 that had succumbed to that particular death of despair in that year.
My sister and I were inseparable growing up because in many ways we were all each other had. We were both adopted very young and separated from the rest of the family, and we grew up in a rough neighborhood that forced you to age up early. She took to the streets pretty well while I stayed in the corner with my own fantasy world. But my younger sister protected me from the worst bullies while I kept her laughing with stories. We made plans to run away together over long afternoons, then we would chicken out at the last second or pretend that now just wasn't the time.
That was, until she really did run away one time. We had no idea where she was for three months; for all I knew, I would never see her again. I grieved deeply, though I didn't know that's what it was at the time. When she eventually came back, our relationship wasn't quite the same. She had left our stifling domestic world for one of her own choosing, and I could never be a part of it. I just didn't have the temperament.
We drifted apart as we grew older. I got into D&D and TTRPGs, then furry; she got into drugs, shoplifting, and boys. Neither of us pleased our adopted mother, who remained emotionally abusive throughout high school. By the time I graduated high school, we were three roommates who shared the same house. I worked two jobs at the mall for six months, went to college, dropped out, got disowned. When my adopted mother told me not to come home next time I left for college one summer, I moved out a week afterward. I didn't see her again until she was on her deathbed.
In that fifteen-year span we talked on the phone a few times. Like most folks in the neighborhood I came from, cell phone service was never secure and numbers would change all the time according to the circumstances. I learned about her children -- my three nephews and one niece -- though I only got to meet them for the funeral. She told me about her diagnoses (Borderline Personality Disorder and chronic anxiety), and how none of her friends put much stock in psychiatry so it was impossible for her to build a support network that would allow her to build coping systems. She told me how, in desperation to be a good mother to her children, she would try to make things work with our mother but couldn't take the verbal and emotional abuse, the paranoid accusations, the constant diminishment. In those last years she bounced back and forth between trying to straighten up for her children and collapsing under the weight of her life without any help. In the end, she died seeking out the only thing that brought her relief. Her family, her friends, her community all failed her.
I miss her. Every version of her. The little six-year-old who would go to sleep laughing at my awful, vulgar stories. The thirteen-year-old tomboy who would fight anyone that dared called me "gay". The 17-year-old who stole and smoked and drank, who had grown up hard in Baltimore and didn't understand her weird older brother but supported him anyway. The desperate 30-year-old trapped in an uncaring environment but wanted to make good.
Today I'll call the nephews I can and make sure they have an ear. And I'll sit with the anger I feel towards my adopted mom, her so-called friends, the world that diminishes and dismisses the pain of Black women. And the shame I feel for not being there more for her, for not making sure she felt seen and supported.
I love you, sister, and I'm sorry I failed you. I hope whatever happened after your passing, you are at peace.
My sister and I were inseparable growing up because in many ways we were all each other had. We were both adopted very young and separated from the rest of the family, and we grew up in a rough neighborhood that forced you to age up early. She took to the streets pretty well while I stayed in the corner with my own fantasy world. But my younger sister protected me from the worst bullies while I kept her laughing with stories. We made plans to run away together over long afternoons, then we would chicken out at the last second or pretend that now just wasn't the time.
That was, until she really did run away one time. We had no idea where she was for three months; for all I knew, I would never see her again. I grieved deeply, though I didn't know that's what it was at the time. When she eventually came back, our relationship wasn't quite the same. She had left our stifling domestic world for one of her own choosing, and I could never be a part of it. I just didn't have the temperament.
We drifted apart as we grew older. I got into D&D and TTRPGs, then furry; she got into drugs, shoplifting, and boys. Neither of us pleased our adopted mother, who remained emotionally abusive throughout high school. By the time I graduated high school, we were three roommates who shared the same house. I worked two jobs at the mall for six months, went to college, dropped out, got disowned. When my adopted mother told me not to come home next time I left for college one summer, I moved out a week afterward. I didn't see her again until she was on her deathbed.
In that fifteen-year span we talked on the phone a few times. Like most folks in the neighborhood I came from, cell phone service was never secure and numbers would change all the time according to the circumstances. I learned about her children -- my three nephews and one niece -- though I only got to meet them for the funeral. She told me about her diagnoses (Borderline Personality Disorder and chronic anxiety), and how none of her friends put much stock in psychiatry so it was impossible for her to build a support network that would allow her to build coping systems. She told me how, in desperation to be a good mother to her children, she would try to make things work with our mother but couldn't take the verbal and emotional abuse, the paranoid accusations, the constant diminishment. In those last years she bounced back and forth between trying to straighten up for her children and collapsing under the weight of her life without any help. In the end, she died seeking out the only thing that brought her relief. Her family, her friends, her community all failed her.
I miss her. Every version of her. The little six-year-old who would go to sleep laughing at my awful, vulgar stories. The thirteen-year-old tomboy who would fight anyone that dared called me "gay". The 17-year-old who stole and smoked and drank, who had grown up hard in Baltimore and didn't understand her weird older brother but supported him anyway. The desperate 30-year-old trapped in an uncaring environment but wanted to make good.
Today I'll call the nephews I can and make sure they have an ear. And I'll sit with the anger I feel towards my adopted mom, her so-called friends, the world that diminishes and dismisses the pain of Black women. And the shame I feel for not being there more for her, for not making sure she felt seen and supported.
I love you, sister, and I'm sorry I failed you. I hope whatever happened after your passing, you are at peace.
