To My Middle Sister

You are pushing me towards the edge and you know it.

I saw the texts you sent my husband. About how thankful you are that he’s taking care of your baby sister, and how horrible it must be for him to look after me. And how much you’re trying to hold your temper in, against my personal attacks.

Well, go on then. Unleash your temper. Tell me what I have done to you that made you feel hurt, abandoned and unworthy. Tell me the things I’ve said that made you cry. Tell me about the time I’ve hit you out of frustration and spite.

Tell me.

Yes. How horrible it must be for my husband to see me suffer every day. To see my eyes red after my shower. To watch me push my food around my plate because I can’t eat. To witness my silent screams of anguish that manifest in me being unable to get out of bed. To hold me while the tears leak out endlessly.

Truly, it is awful.

But why?

Surely, the fact that you beat me up as a child had nothing to do with it. Remember when 8 year old me accidentally exposed your camera film, leading to you slapping me across the face and breaking something that I had borrowed from my school teacher? How about the time I needed some help because I was suffering from bulimia because of our relative’s constant fat-shaming, and you told me that I was doing it to myself? What about the time you invaded my privacy and went through my phone? And remember when you refused to pick me up from my Perth high school graduation night, leading me to have to take the bus from the city at 10pm and walk down all 700 metres of dark and quiet hill by myself.

There are many more incidences of course. But my favourite is when I hosted a dinner because you asked me to, you called me selfish in front of people you invited without my consent. One of whom fat-shamed me unwittingly in front of other relatives just the day before.

Of course, you had nothing to do with the hurt that resulted in all of that.

I sent you the poem because I wanted you to know, from me, the magnitude of pain you inflicted. I sent it to you because I don’t know how much longer I can be in this world. I sent it to you because I don’t want to leave without telling you.

I had haboured a tiny sliver of hope that it would have pushed you to want to save me. Or to redeem yourself in my eyes while I still exist.

For once, it was not I who turned out to be the disappointment.

You once said you loved me. That’s either a the worst lie I’ve heard or you interpret love in such a twisted way that I will never understand it. I could never do the things you’ve done or say the things you’ve said to me to anyone I love.

I was foolish enough to believe that in these months of separation, you would at least think about it. Have a passing thought about me. Acknowledge my truths. But alas, it was a stupid hope to have.

I wish I could say that I wish you every happiness, but my heart is not so forgiving. Instead, I wish that my passing, should it happen soon, will haunt you for the rest of your life. So that you can feel every reach of my agony and humiliation in your entitled, self-righteous ego.

I finally accept that I am dead to you.

This is good-bye.

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