My sixteen year old sister, Mary, died five weeks ago. She ran our car right into a large tree while going very fast. She had no drugs or alcohol in her system. It was not an accident: Mary simply wanted to die. She had tried twice before, and I somehow knew that if she tried again, she would succeed.
Mary was a gifted person, and in many ways, a strong individual. She stood out. She was an artist and wrote poetry. She was also obsessed with death, and had been for several years. She was a good sister to me though, and never treated me like I was a nuisance to her. She talked to me every night before we went to bed, telling me of her day, her pain, and her fears that she would not make it.
I sometimes had to defend Mary against my friends and other people's cruel remarks. They thought she was strange. I did this wholeheartedly because I loved Mary, and wished she could find some peace in her life. She could not, however.
Here is a poem I wrote for her:
I see you
weeping,
Shoulders shuddering in
helpless agony,
Trying to find a measure of
self-control,
Being a stoic person,
you want no one to witness
your pain.
I see you laughing,
Head thrown back in spasms
of not so silent amusement,
Trying to compose features
distorted,
Contorted, you look different,
Free somehow, but a little bit
frightened.
I see you
angry,
Rage evident in tightly clenched muscles,
straining to contain the energy of a
thousand nights of humiliated
silence.
I see you
existing,
Sitting in strained, mute solitude
while the world passes by outside
the window,
Longing for a connection that
doesn't exist,
Searching for a reason
to speak.
I see you
defeated,
A howl of protest
rises from your lips,
but the effort is too much,
Healing the wounds that
were inflicted without
your knowledge.
I will always love you, and miss you, Mary.
Lindsay
You can send email to Lindsay at: [email protected]
mail welcome
anniversary date July 1997
date of post 08-31-97
