Every single day, I miss my sister. I shouldn’t, but I do. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her, and that’s okay, but it fucking kills me on an almost daily basis because yes, I miss her.
And because my parents – predominantly my mother – think more of her than me. That has been true for a long time. I realised that when I was reasonably young; I was the problem child. I was diagnosed with bulimia when I was thirteen, and I can pretty much date the deterioration of mine and my mother’s relationship from there.
Because my mother caught me. She noticed. She saw what had been going on for two years by that point: binging and purging and self-loathing and bits of self-harm and while she never saw the suicide attempt, I think in a weird way she already knew. Even though I have never told her, and do not intend to. Our relationship fell to pieces because I was the broken child who was ill, and never got better. And never will.
I’m always going to be ill. I am always going to struggle.
But I have some things:
- I’m engaged. And I love my partner more than anything, more than life itself, and she makes everything worthwhile.
- I have friends who would end earths for me, and for whom I’d do the same.
- I have a degree from a world-class university.
- I have a job that I love, both as my money-earner and my more general long-term career goal.
- I’m a seriously bloody good actress and writer. No really. I am. I love what I do, and I’m damn good at it,
- I’m getting help. And I will recover.
So you know what? Maybe I will be the successful child, one day. Maybe I’ll be the one to remember, at the end of it. The one with a life I’m proud of, in all ways – mental, physical, emotional.
I can, at least, strive for that.
Let’s see how it goes.