I can remember that it hurt to witness her secret pain. She refused to confide in me what was wrong – always avoiding topics about her past or what was going on in her. My sister and I, we used to be close. I was eleven when she first started distancing herself from me, from our family. I was thirteen when she overdosed on fourteen Ritalin and a bottle of Fireball. I was fourteen when she told me she was going to a rehabilitation center for drug abusers. To be completely honest with myself, I was in denial that her addiction was a problem. I did not ever associate it as a threat to our relationship until it was too late. Maybe it would not have hurt so badly if we had not made a promise after her overdose, or maybe if she would have felt bad
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I was fourteen, she was eighteen. I laid on her white duvet in our joint room, watching the ceiling fan’s blades spin. She was sober, I know this because she had two completely different personalities when it came to being clean or not. She approached the conversation with regret tinging the perimeter of her voice. She told me about the drugs in order. Her boyfriend at the time made her smoke weed with him or he threatened to leave her. She was fifteen; she thought he was her everything. He left her soon after. In order to “get back at him” she snorted baby lines of white powder. The adrenaline kept her company on lonely nights when she no longer had her former boyfriend. Baby lines became thick lines, but no one noticed. Not then. She still allowed smoke to curl around and between her lips, from both cigarettes and weed. She claimed it made her care just a little bit less, but I could have sworn she already did not care at all. Worst of all, she told me about needle that she accused other people of sticking in the bend of her arm. I never fully understood how she could blame something so senile on someone else. That was the night she made me pinky promise her to never buy a little baggie of green, never allow it to be my bridge to other drugs. She promised me it would never be enough; once I got my first high, my next high had to be even better. I agreed with her that I wouldn’t touch drugs, whether the drugs be a plant or not, but I only made the promise on one condition: she had to stay away from it all,
I was fourteen, she was eighteen. I laid on her white duvet in our joint room, watching the ceiling fan’s blades spin. She was sober, I know this because she had two completely different personalities when it came to being clean or not. She approached the conversation with regret tinging the perimeter of her voice. She told me about the drugs in order. Her boyfriend at the time made her smoke weed with him or he threatened to leave her. She was fifteen; she thought he was her everything. He left her soon after. In order to “get back at him” she snorted baby lines of white powder. The adrenaline kept her company on lonely nights when she no longer had her former boyfriend. Baby lines became thick lines, but no one noticed. Not then. She still allowed smoke to curl around and between her lips, from both cigarettes and weed. She claimed it made her care just a little bit less, but I could have sworn she already did not care at all. Worst of all, she told me about needle that she accused other people of sticking in the bend of her arm. I never fully understood how she could blame something so senile on someone else. That was the night she made me pinky promise her to never buy a little baggie of green, never allow it to be my bridge to other drugs. She promised me it would never be enough; once I got my first high, my next high had to be even better. I agreed with her that I wouldn’t touch drugs, whether the drugs be a plant or not, but I only made the promise on one condition: she had to stay away from it all,