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I was always getting sick as a kid and I hated it. Anytime I was forced to stay in bed, away from the real world, I would pout and whine and cry until one of my sisters came to keep me company. One day, I was sitting in my bed, crying over my weak immune system, when there was a knock on my door. It was my older sister, Sarah, holding the most magnificent cup of hot chocolate I had ever seen. She climbed in bed with me and held me until my tears stopped. Then she told me a story: Jack and Dan’s Adventure of Epic Proportion. I eventually fell asleep to the sound of her voice.
Sarah has always loved telling stories. It was her thing I guess. The way she looks at the world, although twisted sometimes, is nothing short of brilliant. Growing up, the turtle crossing our street wasn’t just a turtle. It was Charles Winklemeyer, on a dangerous trek across the world. The tree in our backyard was an intergalactic voyager that we all must board before Earth is destroyed. And Sarah. She wasn’t Sarah. She wasn’t the troubled girl struggling with bipolar disorder who probably wouldn’t finish high school. Instead, she was Robin Hood, Hercules, Don Quixote. She was a strong and powerful knight, ready to take on any giant.
As I grew up, I became aware of Sarah’s deflections from her real life. She was so afraid of failing that she lived in a fantasy where nothing could touch her. To her, she was strong and alive. T0 me she was stuck in her own imagination. As we grew up, the world became uglier, harder, as it does for all children on their way to adults. Her stories began to change. Facing real giants altered her view on life. Her writing became darker, deeper. She wrote with passion, drive, heart and it was real this time. Not a made up fantasy. It was brilliant for a while. She was brilliant. Until she wasn’t anymore. See thats the curse of any illness. You can have a hundred good days, but there will always be a bad one to even it out.
One day, I got a call from Sarah. She was drunk, out of her mind with paranoia and despair. I picked her up and brought her home. She was rambling, her mind racing. It wouldn’t stop. She plead to me to make it stop, so I did the only thing I could think of. I held her close until her tears stopped, then told her the story of Jack and Dan and their adventure of Epic Proportion. I’m not quite sure I did it justice, but this time she fell asleep to my voice.
She will always struggle with anxiety so strong that she can’t leave the house. Depression so heavy that she can’t lift her head off the pillow. But, hopefully this won’t stop her stories. Whether she’s writing to try and escape her reality or face it, it is her way of coping with this fucked up world we live in, and who is anyone to deny a person of that?
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