Writing

I've always had a passion for writing. Always. I've always been fairly creative, also. Now that I'm in my 'professional' role, which seems to lack any real sort of creativity...I'm craving it. So, I've decided to write a book. And its going to be about my sister. For those of you who remember the post, or whom I've told the story to, my sister is an addict, with Oxycontin being her drug of choice. My mom knows about the book, and is totally in support of it. I have no intention of telling my sister until its finished. My hope is that *if* it was to be published someday, it would help others understand addiction, especially that of a family member. And even if it's not published, I think it will help me, and maybe my family, let go. Its still in a very early stage...mostly just blurps and ideas, but heres a few excerpts:

She sleeps with him, not because she loves him, but rather, because it affords her another night with a roof over her head and drugs running through her veins. He tells her he loves her, and this is true because she is beautiful and the drugs offer the two much in common. She repeats the sentiment, not because it is genuine, but because she loves that someone loves her, and of course, she loves the drugs that he provides. And he feels lucky to have a beautiful young girl telling him these things, for he is neither.

There were days when I wished she were dead. Days when I felt like she would finally find the happiness she had been searching for once she was free of this world and the drugs that kept her floating above it and then crashing back to its rocky surface. I lay awake at night and mentally wrote her eulogy, thought of what I would say to consol my parents, what we might burry her in, or if she would be so roughly handled by then that cremation would be the only option. I wondered not if, but when, I would get the call. My guilt over these feelings consumed me – who wishes their own sister were dead?

It’s January and I’ve just begun my master’s degree. My sister has just landed in her first stint in rehab. My brother and I drive the 100 miles to see her, give her our encouragement, our love. We come bearing gifts – her favorite snacks, books and cards. She looks tired and we are proud. We tell her how strong she is for admitting and accepting her problem. We tell her we love her and leave the sterile, sad place to drive the 100 miles home in near silence. Her time in rehab is short lived. Before she can graduate from the program she is kicked out for testing positive in a random draw. She provides excuses for this occurrence and we want to believe her, so we do. She moves straight from rehab into a house that I share with my fiancé. It is an old two bedroom two story house that has seen many years of college renters since its purchase as an investment property. The previous owners were an elderly couple; because of this the house was long forgotten by the modern world. The second bedroom, which is to be hers, is small and painted a sunflower yellow. It has one window that faces an alley and overlooks a small family owned grocery store. My fiancé and I spend the weekend preparing it for her – painting the walls an inviting white, scrubbing the antique wood floors, purchasing second hand furniture and painting and polishing it to give it new life. When we finish I stand back in the doorway and smell the scents of cleaning solutions, fresh paint, and linens. I think of how the room resembles my sister’s life – we’re scrubbing off the bad parts to reveal a fresh new start. In reality the analogy is more like the thin coat of paint on the old crackling walls.

There were days, weeks, when my family spoke of nothing except her. The axis of our word collectively tilted in whichever direction her spiral took.

That last passage pretty much sums it up - for years our lives have been about nothing, if not for her. Maybe this book will help me get past that?