Introduction ⥈ Two Sisters

    They say that siblings share 50% of their genes. We are equally related to our siblings, as we are to our parents. This is a story of how two sisters grew closer as addiction deepened, but our stories are very different. Warning: some content may be difficult to read. Some names have been changed.

Mine was a world of accountability, while hers hovered between the blurry landscapes of mental illness and addiction. Drawing on our sibling birthright my sister and I made a pact. This memoir shows that whatever happened, our relationship perservered. But our bond hadn’t always been that way.

I felt as if I was living part of my life in a dream. Anchored on the one hand by two young children and a husband, my marital relationship was precarious. My baby sister's battle was more visceral. Ultimately, she opted for addiction over mental illness. It carried less stigma and even now, in Canada, there are more resources and endorsements for addicts than for the mentally ill. I left my marriage, shamefully seeking personal happiness over the obligation of keeping the family together for the sake of the children.

Through my own 28-year career as a family therapist and children's play therapist, I saw close-at-hand how the disgrace and bewilderment of psychological disorders alienate family members from one another. Over time, my sister became my greatest teacher. She taught me to recognize the dignity of all lives, including my own. 

I had always felt very alone with my sister’s addiction. When people begin a get-to-know-you conversation, at some point they often ask whether you have any brothers or sisters? Oh, what do they do? I was never sure what to say - should I be honest and reveal that my sister is a long-time crack addict living in the Vancouver down-town east side or do I keep her true life hidden and simply report what she used to do before she lost everything?

This thirty-five year dilemma is the well-source from which this book sprang. My sister wanted us to co-write it. Her openess and lifelong humour over her circumstances brought us together over the years, where instead, many families lose each other. She was the warp and I was the weave and together we created a cardinal fabric that bound us. 

Through my journals, some journals of my sister’s, photos and digging deep into my memories, I try my best to fulfill an echoing promise to her, motivated to be as courageous as she was. Imploring me with her hazel-green eyes, a week before her death, she urged “I still want you to write that book. Write about us.”