My Bipolar Sister Torpedoed Our Relationship
I have empathy, but I must look after my own mental health.
“What the hell is a crotch goblin?” my dad asks, mystified. “She worries me. This flare up is bad.”
You haven’t lived until you’ve had to explain deragatory statements about children to your father. 10/10 on the What the Fuck? scale.
I’d just left a six hour long 4th of July pool celebration with my mom and sister and my children. They live together, and though they fight (a lot) and it had been a turbulent week for them, I was on good terms with both, so I grilled up some hot dogs and lugged my cooler bags of potato salad, tiramisu (homemade, naturally) buns, condiments, wine — you name it, I had it — along with too many pool floats and other assorted pool shit to our few chairs.
It was a hot, blue sky day at an epically gorgeous pool filled with people enjoying life. We had a great time. My sister Lou* even texted me shortly after she’d left to say how much fun she had and how it had been the best 4th of July.
Xoxo to you, too. Alright, success!
Oh, wait. That’s not how this goes.
A couple hours later, the torrent of angry slammed into me and my mom in our group text. Lou was enraged about my reaction to something that had transpired when she was at the pool…and I was not. Hate speech flew as it does when she gets like this. I had not, apparently, had the reaction she was looking for when she’d relayed the story.
My sister, enrobed in long sleeves and pants on the hottest day of the year because she is uncomfortable with her body (and the sun) for various reasons which include dermatillomania— which is fine; I accept her as she is and we’ve had many enjoyable days at the pool where she interacts with us happily from dry land— had moved her chair back two feet from the line of chairs into the shade. Apparently, a few men had muttered under their breath about her blocking the walkway, and that was all it took. Lou responded by moving all the chairs back two feet, and the next time they walked past, she dryly called out, “That better, boys?”
Now, this is hearsay, because I was on *another* food and drink run when it happened. She was eager to tell, and I asked who it was, she pointed out the group, and we continued our day. I maybe didn’t have the reaction she wanted because she gets personal when she feels slighted. She made sure I knew they were “the gays”. That type of identification — whether it’s racial or sexual or otherwise in nature — meant as an insult, turns me off.
I don’t lean in.
Except she was apparently stewing inwardly for hours, and when she erupted, it was bad.
“You can both be spineless and trampled by men, but I will not.”
Bruh, what? I asked for clarification, but because I knew this was going to spiral, I kept my response neutral, other than letting her know that I did not appreciate being called names.
My darling sister wrapped her evening barrage with this gem: “I don’t know why you think your swimsuits are acceptable, but they are not. They are really trashy looking, and your kids are brats and annoying to be around.”
Duly noted, oh ray of sunshine. I bid her a good evening and went to watch the fireworks with my children, who were blissfully unaware of being in their aunt’s line of fire.
Two days later, after no further communication between us, she reached out to let me know she meant every word she said. When my lack of response did not garner necessary drama, she floated this (word for word) love note to me in a group text with our father:
This is a public service announcement. You dress like a slut, act like a slut and we all know your boobs are fake. Stop trying to pretend like you have the moral high ground around here. You are shameful and everyone is afraid to tell you but I’m telling you now! You are like Britney Spears. It’s pathetic. Put some clothes on. Stop screwing other women’s husbands. Get a grip on your bratty entitled crotch goblins. Wanting strangers to ogle your body is some teenager shit. GROW UP.
Methinks the lady doth protest too much.
Am I sunning my buns? Obvi. Have my swimsuit choices changed since she’s known me? Lol. I swam competitively in high school and college. I’m a beach baby through and through. I am comfortable with my body.
Did I converse with any strange men or lure some poor lad into a compromising position in the hot tub? I wish. (But also not, because I’m kind of soured on men lately.) Did I lounge in a donut-decorated floaty, dish up food, and enjoy my day? Hell yeah. This bikini-wearing mama cooked for her mother and sister and joined them at the pool with her 6 and 8 year olds for the party holiday of the year. #woogirlsounds
Fetch me my scarlet letter, but let’s leave poor Britney out of this.
The sad truth of it is that my sister has been 5150'd before. She has struggled since childhood with some heavy mental illness that, until the last few years, has kept her from cultivating and maintaining relationships. She gets angry — really angry — and the result is abusive. Our family has become inured to it because it swims in the gene pool — she saw a lot of this in action growing up— but I act, and that flusters them. I dialed in the emergency call on my way to her house following her suicide attempt. No, I wasn’t overreacting. No, it wasn’t just for attention. Yes, we must act when we are shown clear signs of distress. Yes, I picked her up in the psych ward.
She’s doing better now — she’s got a great job where she can be busy and showcase her incredible IT talent — except when she’s not. She’s not medicated, so when she dips, it’s a deep slide and everyone is a target. She returned to her expensive as fuck and deeply helpful therapy — DBT, or dialectical behavior therapy — and for that we are all supportive, but even therapy hasn’t lessened her freefall this week.
And this time, I blocked. Now, because of my own therapy and growth and boundaries, I realize it’s not my job to save the world, to be a punching bag for those who can’t or won’t self-regulate, and to internalize their hatred.
Because it’s not about me. I love myself. I love my children. I love my sister, but I refuse to normalize this. I will not subject myself willingly to verbal abuse, and I will do everything in my power to ensure my children don’t field a torrent of verbal abuse from their aunt (or any other adult) who happens to have a bad day.
Sorry “crotch goblins”, you’re stuck with me.
