After Kayla

2/03/16

The day my sister killed herself was not the worst day of my life.The day after was. I remember the locked doors, the closed curtains, the shouts outside our house. I remember the endless ringing of the phone, the trash cans full of tissues.

For two weeks I didn’t leave my room. Our room.

And it’s funny, isn’t it.I’d always wanted it to myself. I’d begged for some peace and quiet.

It’s funny, isn’t it.

How the silence has been anything but comforting.

How it’s just a reminder.

After two weeks, they thought I’d had enough.

They tried to send me to a therapist, they even made her come to the house.

She was so pristine, so well-put together, and I thought, you can’t help me. How could she possibly understand, this woman who had probably never faced real struggle, the kind that makes you wonder what you have left to get up for in the morning. The kind that scratches away at your soul, the kind that takes down the weak and injures the strong.

I was so convinced you were strong.

Because you were so brave, Kayla, you confronted your problems head first, you were prepared for any challenge that came your way….

I was so convinced you were strong.

And yet here I am.

Alone.

So many mornings I came into the kitchen, hungover from a night of partying and wanting to be left alone with my pain, and you would already be there at the stove making pancakes, or waffles. You always loved to cook, especially for me. You would turn around, smile because my pain amused you, and hand me a plate.Then you’d make a joke about how someday you wouldn’t be there to take care of me and cook me breakfast. And I would always tell you that was impossible.

“You’re not getting rid of me,” I’d say. “I’m the older one.

I get to die first.”