The Finish Line

So I finished my first 10km race and it was such a metaphor for my life with my sister that it was almost ironic and ridiculous. My race was very difficult because it had hills - BIG fucking hills. I have tried to train for hills but the concept still entirely eludes me. My heart started racing 10 steps up the first hill, it loomed over me and it seemed so far up. I wanted to run it but I couldn't. I walked then ran, walked some more, ran a little bit, walked a lot more and finally got to the top of that monster hill. I thought it would be 1km but it was 3km. I wasn't prepared and I knew my time would be terrible and despite knowing I was at least going to finish this race, I felt devastated. I thought about my sister the whole time and I realized that this is how she must feel - trying so hard and knowing it's just not going to be exactly what you hoped for at the end. I totally felt like giving up sometimes. I said "Fuck" a lot when I had to slow down. I was so frustrated and angry but I could not make my body do what I wanted my body to do. It just wasn't ready, it did not have enough familiarity with the pain to push through it with any kind of force. I truly truly just wanted to be proud that I finished but I kept having these odd twinges of regret and embarrassment when people asked me my time. I was not on par with these runners and I realized that despite their very best efforts not to, they were judging me. Not judging me to be unkind or cruel, but they had their own perceptions of the race, the pace and the way they handled the hills - they could not begin to understand mine and the great effort it took for me. They could not understand why it was so difficult because they had the ability to do it and many of them had done it before. This is the world my sister lives in - never quite measuring up and always having people measure her by their own measuring stick. It's not always meant to be unkind or cruel but I can see that it sure must feel that way. It doesn't matter how many times you tell me I tried my best or what a great job I did, I will feel the sting of failure. I will rebuke myself for not pushing harder, for not training more for not just being better despite how unrealistic it is having just put in some real training for a month. I just want to be really good and it's that simple. I know I have to work twice as hard now because of my age and my serious lack of exercise for 2 years - I know I have built in handi-caps. But it doesn't matter at the finish line, I am still undone because me and them - we are just not the same and I know it. My sister and I know this, my sister knows this everyday. It makes me want to train harder and it makes me want to lie down and cry until I can't possibly cry any more. Because my sister doesn't fit in, neither do I anymore.

I realized this weekend that my walls are WAY up. I had thought I was mellowing and settling but I saw how much work I have to do. It was a girl's weekend, all piled into a condo laughing and sharing our lives. I did not want to share my life. I felt compelled to stay upstairs in my bed and pull the blankets over my head. Obviously I have stories to share that are appropriate and lovely but they are so deeply intertwined with my stories of discord and heartbreak it is hard to separate them out and tell them in a charming manner that screams "Look at me, I'm normal just like you". I can't tell the story of my children without telling about my nephew which means I have to explain why I have him. And even as vague as I have learned to be, I hate the unsure glances and the sickening smell of curiosity and judgement milling around the room. People want to feel bad for me but they must at the exact same time wonder who my sister is and what mother would leave her child behind. They get a little more protective of their stories and their lives, they get a little self righteous. The line gets thicker between us. I'm not welcome on the other side of the line anymore even if I have done nothing wrong. I want to be separate from my sister as much as I want to be completely entombed with her to protect her and give her some credibility. Having a sister who still loves you after everything you've done gives her some credibility, it makes people give her a second chance because it means there must be something worthwhile about her even if they can't see it. So it is still my responsibility to keep her in this race and shuffle her through to the finish line and bear the judgments that rain down on her. It is still my cross even though I have tried to shed it and allow her the responsibility of her own life. We are both irrevocably changed by this disease, we are colored by it even when you don't know it. You just know there is something different about us. My social skills are lacking, my ability to be just me is nearly impossible. I don't trust people with my story anymore. I don't want to get close to anyone new because I do not want to explain it and risk you walking away because of the complication. I am closed for business. My self confidence is shallow and easy to see through these days. I am so good at tricking you from far away but close up you can see it - the nervousness and the anxiety of trying to be normal just like you. I think of my sister's nervous laughter that drives me crazy, how she smokes and makes fun of everything in her attempts to find your normal. But you are not fooled. She is ousted immediately. I felt that this weekend in a tiny fraction of what she must feel everyday. And I cried for myself when I got home and then I cried for her and I realized that running is not the only thing I need to train for. I'm training for normal.

I ran 10km the other day. I sat down on the bumper of my car and cried. It was suppossed to be this big moment when I got back to being able to run 10km - I have worked really hard for it and I felt proud. But as always, there was something missing. I am still amazed at how easy it is for me to set a goal, put the work in and achieve it. It is where my sister and I part ways. She sets goals and she works very hard but it always seems like the end result always eludes her. It's like running 10km and never reaching the end. I can't imagine it. I simply can't imagine not getting the brass ring at the end of all the hard work. It is the reason I get so short with her sometimes because I just want to say, "stop fucking around and do it - you can do this". It's just that I have seen her so many times before finish the race. I still can't believe that she can't do it again. I know her perceptions of success and greatness are different than mine now. I realize I need to wear special rose colored glasses when I observe her world and see the tiny steps as the great big leaps that they are for her. I wish she was coming to my race my next weekend - she would stand at the end of the line and scream. She wouldn't have cared who was there or who was looking at her, she would come running at me and grab me up and swing me around and she would have said stuff like, "Don't be jealous - that's my sister". I can see her in my head as the girl I used to know. She would have been so proud. We probably would have gone to the pub afterwards and had beer and chatted up all the locals. I don't think this will ever happen again. I know I will never drink with my sister again. She leaves tonight for rehab again. A few beers to my sister is a doorway to a month of rehab. She seems less like the addict she was last year - she was sketchy and outward in her addictions. She looked addicted. Now she has dyed her hair back to the California blonde we know and love on her, she put on some more weight and she seems interested in her clothes again. Sometimes I want to squeeze her she looks so cute. And I forget, I simply forget she is not the same girl. Sweet, sweet, ignorant bliss.

I want you to know that I am running for her. She doesn't understand this so I'm telling you. There is no greater joy for me than to carry her burdens with me on my runs and throw them out to the early morning air and let them be for just awhile. I always hope when I get home, when my sneaker hit the door, she'll be there smiling and laughing. Hope carries me no matter how stupid it feels when I really see her and she is still broken into a million pieces. I think if I can run 10km, then she can be well. And then I think maybe I need to run further. Just a little further....