Sister, Mine

Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday! Fuck you, too! Fuck you, too!

I suppose it is fitting that I should write this entry today, as it is my sister’s birthday.

I was forced to finally estrange her in July 2015. So, today marks the second time that I haven’t had to indulge her in her silly tradition. Every year on her birthday she wanted me to post the video shown below to her Facebook page. Every year on MY birthday, she would in turn post it to my Facebook  page. Before Facebook became THE thing, we would also do this on MySpace.

She found it to be quite amusing.

I feel a bit ludicrous every time I refer to her in this blog as my “sister” which is why sometimes I put it in quotation marks. Biologically speaking, she is only my HALF sister. We have different fathers. Emotionally speaking, she is not my sister at all. She never has been. We were never close. For all intensive purposes…

I have no sister. 

When I use the words “my sister” in this blog entry they are used for the sake of continuity, basically. Outside of that the words don’t mean a thing.

She is 5 years and 2 months older than myself, so the age gap may have contributed to our distance. Also, we are as different as day and night. She was the golden child, the little blond-haired blue eyed cherubic wonder child that every (typical, white) parent dreams of having. Because of this I will refer to her as Princess. I, of course, was the polar opposite; the dark and busted-faced changeling for whom a lie had to be manufactured in order to excuse my very existence.

When I was 2 years old, we were all (with the exception of Grandfather) outside making snowmen. Princess had a friend over. She and her friend Maureen… Doreen? … something like that, asked Mommy if they could walk me down to the end of the block & back. Mommy said yes. As soon as we were out of sight my sister pulled my winter beanie hat down over my face and wouldn’t let me pull it up to see. Then she pulled my coat hood down over my face and tied it shut really tightly so I couldn’t push it or the hat underneath it, still covering my tiny face, off. I was dismayed and struggling; they were both hauling on my arms and/or pushing on my back to make me keep walking with them, since I had tried to get away from them and run back to the house. Even though I was only 2 years old, I REMEMBER the shock and dismay that I experienced. The dismay was in part because nobody had ever treated me that way ever before in my life, but also because having my face and head helplessly obscured like that reminded me of the anesthesia mask that I associated to trauma; and that I had already had so much more than my fair share of experiences with. Naturally, I panicked. At the end of the block, Princess & her nasty friend shoved me, face first and yowling, into a snowbank. They left me there, semi-suffocated, sobbing, soggy, cold, confused, scared, and blind. They had tied my coat hood up in such a way that tiny toddler me with my wee mittened hands was completely incapable of escaping.

I recently shared this memory with my grandmother, who was shocked that I could possibly remember the incident when I had been so young, but she confirmed that it indeed was a true and verifiable memory. She told me that she was the one who came and pulled me out of the snowbank, and liberated me from my hood and my hat. She also said that she remembers that my sister and my friend did NOT get in trouble with my mother for what they had done to me, so, she sent Doreen home and punished my sister herself, in spite of my mother’s weak protests. Yes, Mommy didn’t protest me getting hooded and then dumped & deserted in a snow bank… but she did protest Princess getting in trouble for it.

Par for the course.

Another sweet memory I have of the Princess – it may seem really petty but it really pisses me off… even all of these many years later. When I was 9 and she was 14, she started working as a housekeeper for our great-aunt, who would give her a $20 for 4 or 5 hours of work every Saturday. I had access to zero money; we didn’t get allowances or anything, so it seemed like an unattainable fortune to me. I was covetous and annoyed, but not a whole lot could be done about that, so, I coped.

Now, my grandmother has had a series of health crises all her life. One unhappy day found us at the hospital. Again. Grandmother was admitted and mother was there, for some horrible reason she opted to bring my sister & I. I guess Grandfather didn’t have the patience to watch us in her absence… Grandpa didn’t much give a fuck that Grandma was in the hospital (again) – I guess he’d had enough of her health crises at that point that he just figured she was a hypochondriac, in fact he would sometimes mutter that “her neurosis” was “killing his goddamned bank acct. and insurance premiums”. For my sister and I to be hearing this from him, especially when we were so young, he seemed heartless; but since Grandma is still alive some 30 years later and he is not, I guess maybe he had a point.

Anyway, mother went somewhere (presumably to be with grandmother, but hell, maybe she left the damn hospital and went to a movie or went to BK and got herself a burger, for all I know). She left Princess & I alone in the waiting room for a very, very long time… something mind-bending and obscene and intolerable like 4 or 5 hours. We were SO bored that we decided to wander around the hospital (as bored and deserted kids are often wont to do) and we found the cafeteria. This was back in 1985 so you could get a hot dog for 50¢ and a soda for 50¢. Her housekeeping shift had been only a day or two prior to Grandmother’s emergency, and I knew for a fact she had that $20 on her. I BEGGED her for a hotdog and a soda. No. How about just a hotdog then? No. We had not eaten for HOURS and I was legitimately hungry; never before or since has a hotdog been so inaccessible or looked and smelled so good. She ended up buying a small bag of Cracker Jacks, which she ate all of – but she generously gave me the dust at the bottom of the bag. (She also kept the Toy Suprise! lol) When she bought the cracker jacks I SAW the $20 and all the change she got in return!! The server/cashier watched this whole scene unfold before her eyes, and I remember that she pursed her lips sternly at my sister and then looked at me with the most pitying eyes. She did not, however, give me a hotdog. Later, we found the gift shop and Princess bought herself a Seventeen magazine and some barrettes. I didn’t bother to ask for anything. I already knew the answer.

Is it petty to remember that and to resent her for it? It’s not even the specifics of that day that piss me off so much, as it is that the situation is broadly representative of the way she always treated me, all my life. She seldom even called me by my name. Usually her pet name for me was “Scumbelina”. Of course she was Thumbelina, the blond, tiny, pretty faerie.

She was a fan of the television show “The Equalizer” and an episode called “Lady Cop” aired on October 16, 1985 (I love the internet!) Thanks to a scene in this episode, for about a year,  my sister would regularly grab me, slam me repeatedly against a wall, and scream into my face,

“You. Are. Scum! You are scum! You make everything you touch dirty! And you’ve made me lower than you are. And that, I will not forgive. I do not forgive! I do not forgive!”

The scene is shown here at 37 minutes and 14 seconds into the show – you don’t have to watch 37 minutes to get to it, just grab the progress bar at the bottom of the video & take it to 37:14.

My mother didn’t have a problem with Princess doing this to me, in fact, she found it to be quite amusing. I was expected to be a good sport and just silently endure it, after all, they weren’t being abusive, they were just joking around, right?

Any form of protest only bought me ridicule from both of them.

In spite of her asinine behavior at home, in a scholastic environment she would behave in an insufferable manner that was extremely proper and priggish. Purportedly, she has had only one lover ever, her Where’s Waldo lookin’ boyfriend John. She may have ended up with him because she was a snooty prig, (as is he – birds of a feather) or it may be because she had a birth defect, as well (of course hers was all nice and invisible, not all up in the middle of her face, like mine is). She had this obnoxious, impenetrable hymen that poor John just could not contend with, so she had to go to a surgeon to get it removed. Honestly, I think this is why she ended up with John. She had been what the masses would consider lovely – she had the whole petite, blond, grey-eyed high cheek boned thing going for her. She could have easily had a man that doesn’t have visible wax gunk ever-present in his ear hairs; a man who doesn’t at best look like a cross between a hairy little spider and Where’s Waldo… but such a man would have insisted upon actual intercourse way before John ever did. John was with her for about 5 years before she got the surgery!! 😮 He knew that he had better hold out because she was, at least physically, way out of his league. He knew that he’d never have another woman as good-looking as she was cast a glance in his icky-sticky little troll-man direction. In her youth she was attractive – her loveliness has fled her, now. In a rare divulgence that was way way WAY out of character for her prim, priggish, and proper Princess ass, she told me on one unfortunate day that prior to the hymen surgery she had placated him with a lotta, lotta blowjobs. Why would I ever want to know that? Ever?!!

I was horrified, given the subject matter!  I mean, John, obviously, not the blowjobs.

ew
Well, actually, the blowjobs too. Ew all the way around!

I remember exactly when it was that I went from indifferently disgusted about the Princess to actively despising her. Our mother did not fuck up the Princess’s life near so badly as she had mine, so she went the regular route of entering college immediately after high school. She was big on the whole academic scene. When I was 13 years old, she was 18 and had moved on to college. She was not present during the months that I had spent so much time with the pedo-fucko as described in the blog entry Mother. When I uncovered the gross relationship between our mother and the pedo-fucko, of course I informed the Princess right away. I called her & told her all about all of the fucking around that he & I had done, and about how how he had apparently moved on for some of the same with our mother. She was doubtful. She doubted that I had really indulged in activity of a sexual nature with a guy that was 3 years older than she was, and she REALLY doubted that our mother would ever do anything like that. She called our mother, who initially denied it all. When it became apparent, not long after that, that our mother had lied and I had told the truth, my sister never EVER apologized for doubting me. Not once. Ever. Not even when I called her on it.

Much later! – I archived this blog entry and set it aside for several months as the subject matter sickens me. I suppose I shall now force myself to finish it so I can get it posted and move on to a new & depressing topic.

It was burn after burn after burn from dear Princess – highlights include an incident that occurred when I came (snort!) “home” for a two-week visit after having lived for several years on the opposite coast. It had been over 4 years since I had seen any of my family members. In that time I had struggled my way out of homelessness to getting a decent-paying job and an apartment, and being able to afford not only my round-trip plane ticket, but to have damn near a grand ($1K) to throw around during my vacation. I didn’t spend near that much, of course, although I could have afforded to at the time… but I paid for our family of 5 to see a movie, and then I paid for the pizza party dinner for all of us at our favorite (and still my favorite!) small-town pizzeria, across the street from the theater. Then we went shopping and I was buying a couple of different colored sets of fuzzy kittycat pajamas (I had those for years – I loved them – I wore them until they rotted apart) and an armload of other crap that I wanted, and my “sister” became so jealous – my grandmother purports to have been able to SEE the green-eyed envy at the wad of cash I had to wave around – even if it DID benefit her and the rest of the family – so she picked a fight with me and we ended up having a stupid little pushy-pinchy-slappy-fight right there in the middle of the store. We were 27 and 32 years old. How embarrassing & absurd. Welcome the fuck home, right?! Happy Fucking Vacation! She couldn’t even buy me a mutha-fok’n hotdog in the midst of neglect, yet this is how she treated me after I bought her fancy ass dinner and a movie.

One more highlight and then I’ll get to the End Show of this particular blog entry.

I had ended up homeless and had fled to the opposite coast in the first place because some maniac had stalked me and burnt down my rented home. If I ever write a blog entry detailing THAT particular mess, I will link it HERE. Before I fled to the opposite coast, but after my home had burnt to the ground, I asked my sister, who lived in a major city approx. 300 miles away, if I could come and live with her for just a month or two while I regrouped and found a job and an apartment. She answered with a resounding FUCK NO. I was homeless and had literally lost everything, including pets, and it was still a FUCK NO from her. Imagine my surprise. Then, the stalker boy did something else and I said “fuck this” and fled as far way from him as I could literally get without falling right the fuck off of the edge of the country.

Four years later I discovered WHY her answer was FUCK NO. She is a hoarder. Not just a little bit… but, like, fit for the TV show Hoarders. She lives in a full-blown hoarder house. When I came “home” for the aforementioned Vacation of Shit, I flew to the city in which she resides with the plan being that we would spend one night there at her house (unbeknownst to me at the time of planning, it would be a night spent with roaches crawling on me and my nostrils clogged with the eau de stink of her multiple un-emptied cat litter boxes) and then we would road-trip by car the 300 miles to our hometown. This was an annual summer pilgrimage that she and her spidery John made anyway – he would drop her off at our mother’s house and carry on his hairy, merry way to see his own miserable family for 3 to 5 days, depending on what they were able to mutually arrange with their respective employers, and then he would come and pick her up & they would head back to the city. It was easier for me to fly to the city where she lived, and where there was an actual airport, as our “home” town (I hate this town!) is clear the Christ out in podunkville cow-country. Seriously, there isn’t a Starbucks for 75 mile radius. No joke. It’s like that. Airports aren’t really a thing around here.

The last time she was here for her annual summer visit – July 2015 – she told my grandmother and I that she had to go clothes shopping at the local Salvation Army as she was in trouble with her employer for the way that she dressed. She was boggled and offended by this. She really doesn’t get it that she dresses like, as our grandmother so delicately put it, “a clown”. Somewhere in her head, she believes that her bold attempts and style and color combination look good. (They don’t). She’s like that one poor bastard – there’s at least one in every high school – who tries to dress like The Cool Kids and fucks it all up. (Except for the part where she’s in her mid-40’s). She bought almost $200 worth of crap at the thrift store, and then when she insisted upon putting on a “fashion show” of her purchases, grandmother & I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All she did was spend all that money on even more Clown Clothes. Then, instead of taking all of that crap home to wash, she wanted to tax OUR washing machine and electric bill and laundry soap supply by washing all of that shit at OUR house. Who DOES that?!!! Right?!! I wanted to revolt and disallow it, but grandmother, ever the enabler, said, “let her”. Fucking giant sigh! If I had known how things were going to pan out a few scant days later I WOULD have disallowed it. During her stupid fashion show, she told us that this was actually the SECOND time that she had dumped $200+ on cosmetics and thrift store clothes that month, but she couldn’t find the first load of shit in her house. She open-faced admitted that she had lost it in her hoard. I believe it. She told us this 15 years AFTER I saw her house. If it was that much of a hoard/mess 15 years ago, I can barely fathom what it must look like now. 15 YEARS of her mad shopping sprees ON TOP OF what I witnessed… it must be… so so so so very bad. Like, paths through stuff, walking on top of stuff bad. How fucking bad must your house be that you can’t find $200 worth of clothes and cosmetics in it?!!!!  😮

Unbelievable. Well at least she admits that she is a hoarder and even uses the words hoard and hoarder in conversations about her house and herself. That’s about the ONLY thing she has going for her.

Now we have the End Show! The final rub. By the time Mommy Dearest froze herself to death, my grandmother and I had already estranged her for nearly a year, because she was an insufferable, narcissistic, horribly poisoned hate monster. Due to this estrangement she excluded us entirely and directed via notes and letters that all of her death arrangements should be handled by my sister. Sister… ha! Get this!!  😮 Sister Mine called me and said “John (spider-boy) and I are driving out to deal with mother’s apartment. Pedo-fucko will be there, too. You can come and help us empty out the apartment but since you estranged her you cannot have anything unless John. myself, or pedo-fucko doesn’t want it.” So, she wanted me to come help clean up the mess, and be subjected to the pedo-fucko, whom she knows I despise, only to be told that I’d get last pickin’s of all of the cigarette and wood-smoke poisoned junk. Oh, like I covet it so!  I told her, “you know what? Fuck you and fuck him and fuck that. Figure it out yo damn self”. Her & Spider John ended up bringing down a load of crap anyway – literal CRAP – the stink of cigarette smoke and firewood smoke and mold and Old House rolling off if it fucked me AND my grandmother up and I ended up having to haul 85% of the crap down to the goddamned curb for the garbage man. She literally bought me the garbage and the shit.  If you could see the mattress that she brought me you’d KNOW that she’s mentally ill! It was literally unusable and filled our livigroom with the most unholy, cancerous stink. Even the few salvageable things I got – a vase and an antique bed doll… well, the vase is broken in a minor way (not shattered) and the bed doll (which my grandmother claims is likely from the late 1800’s) is more like ancient than antique – she is falling apart and wears a filthy smoke and decay-destroyed dress. These are the only reasons I got these things. She literally bought me the garbage; and the only reason she bothered to do that much is because our grandmother had requested a few items. Grandmother had estranged our mother, too, but she was still respectable and lovable in the eyes of Princessa. I was just shit.

At this point because she had dared to place the pedo-fucko ahead of me in that way “because you estranged our mother and he did not” (no he only fucking beat her & killed her pets and stole from her for years) I was done. I didn’t give a shit if I EVER saw Princess again. I made my contempt evident but she didn’t give a fuck – she came the following summer per usual, and I couldn’t prevent it because I live with our mutual grandmother and she “came to see Grandmother”. This was the visit in which she did the absurd thrift store shopping spree. She had hated the pedo-fucko for years – or so she told our Grandmother – but when they cleaned up Mother’s Mess together apparently they became “friends” and had been texting for months. She told me she was going to meet up with the pedo-fucko for coffee “or something”.  I told her that I had thought that FINALLY, what with our mother’s demise, I could FINALLY after 25+ years of shit (!!!) have heard and seen the last of that goddamned pedo-fucko, (unless of course I ran into him around town, which happens infrequently and makes me sick to my stomach when it does). I told her that after 25 years of her hating him, (as did I, of course) that her wanting to be his friend and going to have coffee or something with him now that our mother was dead and gone was just like if she had taken a shit in her hand and slapped me full across the face with it. Who in the fuck wants to go have coffee (or something) with the pedo that fucked up their sister’s life?!!!! Who DOES that?!!!

Allow me to note here – she didn’t hate him because of anything having to do with me or what he did to me and my life. She hated him because he was a pothead and a partier, and potheads and partiers are (in her humble opine) Bad. I told her that I could not prevent them from goddamn texting or emailing each other, but if she thought she was going to develop the habit of going out with him during her annual visits to MY house, then she could fuck off on a very permanent basis, and that I meant it. I reminded her that when I had estranged our mother it had been forever, and I told her plainly that if she chose friendship with the pedo-fucko, that there would be no recourse, no way to take it back, no way to fix it, ever-ever, and that a done bun can’t be undone. Our grandmother sat right there next to me and told her that she 100% sided with me, and that after all of the years of contempt, opting quite suddenly to be friends with this man was unnecessary and irregular and even sick, and it was cruel to me, and that if she was willing to put her sister (me) through that, she never wanted to see her again, either. The bitch didn’t think about it for even 5 seconds. She IMMEDIATELY said “well that’s how that is then” and she got up and left the house. This happened at around 8 pm, she was gone for 7 hours  – she came back at 3 am – and by 7 am her icky spiderboy John had terminated his vacation by two days in order to come and pick her up early – to rescue her from our contempt and our utter lack of reason. As they left he screamed, “Good Riddance!” and slammed the door really really hard.

He always was an asshole. At the end of the aforementioned Vacation of Shit, we drove back to the city and I had to spend one more gross night in their filthy mess before taking my flight back to the West Coast and my vestiges of a life there. On that night, John actually told me that he “couldn’t wait until it was tomorrow, and strange people were out of his house”. I was their ONLY guest. How insufferably rude, is that, really?! Who does that?!!! (Spider John!) At the time I wasn’t ready to estrange Princess yet, so I diplomatically kept my mouth shut (yet STILL ate shit, so to speak) but what I was burning to say was, “Freak, what? Even when I am long gone, there are still going to be some damn strange people in yo house!”

Good Riddance is right.

I asked the Princess once during a frank moment why she had always been such an insufferable bitch to me. She said, “After you were born, you got all of the attention. Any and all extra money went to you and your special needs. I didn’t get the dance classes or the piano lessons or the ice skating lessons or the Equestrian schooling that I should have gotten! I could have been something great but I am not because of you!”

Yes, she actually blames me for her lack of greatness.  ಠ__ಠ

Such an entitled little bitch, She. Such a shame that I came along and ruined everything, right? 100% of the blame to be had is mine, of course. Absolutely none of it has anything to do with my mother. She was absolved of all guilt in the matter by having been raped… or by having falsely purported to have been, anyway. That was so much easier than admitting that she was just a stupid floozy.

So, I am expected to be oh so goddamned sorry that all of that extra money went to me and that the expenses were largely due to the fact that I was, as my mother and grandmother so delicately explained to my sister with this exact wording – “broken”. I am supposed to be so goddamned sorry that I was even born; a great shame and the reason for a great big old rapey lie,  – and broken, no less!!!

Well excuse the ever-loving fuck out of me!

I am sorry, actually.

Not that I was born, so much, as that I was born to THIS particular lot of assholes.

A final note – this woman, who lives in a filthy hoarder house, when given a choice, willfully chose the friendship of a pedophile over her own sister and grandmother, and who dresses like a cross between a clown and an 80’s reject, (that’s not dissing all 80’s fashions – just the bad ones) …this woman is currently a mental health counselor.

Let THAT sink in and terrify you for a moment.

 

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