Shortly after my father died and my mother went to a care facility, I was scrambling to find an apartment. I’d been caring for my parents for the past 10 years, my resume was spotty at best (you can’t work full time and care for aging parents and a brother with cancer) and I had out of control anxiety.

So I found myself on Income Support and trying desperately to find somewhere to live so I didn’t end up homeless. After a fruitless apartment search, I turned to my sister in frustration and said at least I could live with them until I got on my feet. Her answer stunned me.

“I’d rather see you homeless than have you live with me,” she said with absolutely no emotion at all.

Is it any wonder I cut her and her husband out of my life?

I used to think that my sister hated me. It would explain all the horrible things I’ve had to endure from her. However, I don’t think that’s the case at all. Rather, I think that she has no more use for me than she does a used enema kit and she treated me that way. You wouldn’t show emotion to a used enema kit, would you? So why on earth would she care about me?

So I thought up some other gems that’s come out of my sister’s mouth, directed at me. Call this whining on my part, call it a rant or call it therapy. Whatever you call it, make sure you label it accurately; abuse.

  • At the gathering after my brother’s funeral, she looked at me and said, in front of a house full of people, “I wish you’d died rather than Randy (our brother). He would have taken care of Mom and Dad.”
  • When I was 10 years old and in front of her friends. “You’re fat.” Me: “No I’m not.” Her: “You will be.”
  • In front of a boyfriend when I was 15 years old, “you look like a slut.”
  • At the age of 4 while brushing my teeth and squeezing copious amounts of toothpaste on my brush, “your husband will divorce you if you squeeze toothpaste like that.”
  • At the age of 8 in front of my mother, “you’ll get pregnant by the time you’re 14 and I’ll take the baby and raise it as my own.” (This threat was repeated many times in my life.
  • At the age of 16 upon hearing the news of a good friend’s death (she died by arson at the age of 18), “how good of a friend could she have been? She never called you.”
  • At the age of 18 upon hearing me beg for almost 2 minutes to hear her say she loved me, “I can’t say I love you because I don’t.”

There’s more. So many more. Each one has been a knife in my soul. Probably no one will care to read this and a lot of people may call it whining. I don’t care. I needed to get it out before those words poison me.