Visiting with my sister is always super bitter-sweet. Like, I don't know, like the memories are about to jump out of my chest, break all my ribs. Its, its like dying. Almost.
Its like, I know there's a sweetness to it, there's a wonder to being with her. But, there's this lingering guilt and this lingering sickness to it. This... I don't even know how to explain it. Its just like, its kinda like dying. I don't, I don't know how to explain it other than that.
And its like, you know, I'm at her grandmother's and I think "wow, you were my grandmother too, once." Once upon a time, in this land called a fairy tale, because, you know, we were... we were something. What were we?
I was this step-grandchild and that was it? Is that all I was? Was I just a little girl that sometimes came over and learned how to knit? Was, was I anything? Was I anything? Anything, besides non-existent?
And it would be almost pleasant if I didn't feel like there was this knife being jammed in-between my ribs, like a bullet going through my chest and tearing everything into itty-bitty pieces because I can't believe a goddamn word she says, because she's a liar. And, and, you know, we sit there and we play make believe and we say "oh, we can trade books" and "oh, I'll bring you pictures" and "oh, I'd really like to have some of your pictures." But that's not true. Its not true at all.
Its, its as if I don't exist when I'm not there. Its only when I'm there that I matter. It, you know, I... She had my number, she could've called me. She could've gotten a hold of me, she knew where I was when I was in my car accident. They all knew where I was. They all knew. I was at that freaking hotel, in freaking _______, she lives ten minutes from there!
I didn't hear from her once. I didn't, I didn't hear from her, I didn't see her. She didn't come to visit me. I mean, I guess it speaks well of ___ that he came to the hospital when I was in surgery. But I wouldn't have wanted to see him. Wouldn't have wanted to see him at all.
And its so... fucking pitiful, being twenty-four years old and having to play make believe with an old woman, pretending that we had something when we clearly don't. Its, its one of the worst feelings in the world because I want to have some sort of relationship with her. Because I want to be able to go to my grandmother's house and spend the night. And tell her all about the stories I'm writing and tell her all about everything.
I didn't have that kind of relationship with my real grandmother. I didn't get to have that kind of relationship with Memere because she died and she lived in California. But this was a woman I had access to, this was a woman I lived, like, a hop, skip and a jump from. Literally just walk through the field and there she was. And, and I don't think she ever knew me at all. And I never knew her. And I just, I feel so stupid for wanting this relationship when it will cause me nothing but misery because I know I can't trust anything she says!
And it feels like I'm betraying my mother because, you know, she hated my mother. She still hates my mother, but you can almost pretend that she doesn't hate my mother because she doesn't have to deal with her on a regular basis. She doesn't, doesn't have to say "this is my daughter-in-law." She doesn't have to acknowledge my mother at all.
This is... its just so fucking ridiculous. Having to play make believe and the memories are building up in my chest so that they're going to break my ribs when they come crashing out. And I just... I want to have a normal family. I want to have, I want to have grandparents, I want to have a father. I... I want to have a good relationship with my sister. And I can't because, every time I see her, the memories start and I have to see her father and I feel like I'm going to be sick and then I have the nightmares because everything he ever did to us comes rushing back.
The lies, the torture, everything. Everything comes back, every cruel word. Every moment where he could've made a difference and he didn't. Where he could've made a good difference and he didn't. And I'm, I'm just some little girl to be played with, apparently. 'Cause, you know, I don't, apparently, don't deserve the truth. Apparently. And that's what hurts, one of the, one of the biggest knives dug in, is not that they lied to me, but that I didn't deserve the truth. That I didn't deserve to be loved, for whatever reason.
Even though I tried, really hard, to be everything they wanted me to be. When I tried really hard to be the perfect Sarah, whoever the fuck Sarah is. Nobody fucking knows! I don't even know. I don't know who Sarah is. Sarah doesn't exist. Sarah doesn't exist. I don't know who I am. But who I was, was apparently never good enough. So what the fuck does it matter?
It doesn't. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, none of it matters. Why the fuck am I even recording this? Who the fuck am I going to send it to? Nobody. Its just going to sit here, on this phone, as a reminder. As a reminder of memories and pain and crying while I'm driving home from dropping my sister off at her grandmother's.
That's what this is going to be. That's all its going to be. So what the fuck does it matter?
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