“You’re Just like your Sister”

September 17, 2021

My half sister Anita is/was eleven years older than me. She died in April 2013.

Her favorite thing to do to me was to come up to me, ask, “What’s worse than a tornado?” then, before I could get away, she’d reach out, grab a breast, pinch and twist it and at the same time screech out, “A TITTY TWISTER!”
This was never fun for me because it would leave bruising around my nipples. And sometimes she would even get a hold of both of them.

I vividly remember being four years old and her tackling me to the ground, then tickling my ribs so hard that it left bruises and I wound up peeing all over the floor. Guess who got yelled at for peeing all over? Yup. Whenever Dad was around, he would pull her off me. But if it was just the egg donor, she’d get up and leave the room.

When I was five, Anita told the high school guidance councilor that she was beaten, locked in a closet and forced to clean the entire house by herself. The 1970s version of Child Protective Services hauled Anita away and put her in a foster home. They didn’t take me out of the home, nor did they investigate the claims. If they had, they would have found that none of the closets in the house had locks. None. She ran away from the foster home claiming that she was beaten, locked in a closet and forced to do all the chores by herself. So she was placed in another foster home, which she ran away from claiming that she was beaten, locked in a closet and forced to do all the chores by herself. Sound familiar? Someone finally got wise, dropped her ass back off at home and told her to behave herself or she’ll have to sit in jail until she turned 18. I was not happy to have the abuser return. Things got even worse for me.

By the time I was seven, Anita was married and out of the house. She asked the egg donor to drive her to the beauty parlor on the outskirts of town. Why she didn’t drive herself, I have no idea. For some reason, egg donor wound up driving Granny’s car. Not sure why. All I remember clearly was heating hot dogs up in our brand new microwave with my dad when the phone rang. He answered, turned white, then barked at me to grab my shoes. We drove out to the highway where a beet truck had t-boned Granny’s car. The egg donor had a stop sign, the beet truck did not. According to the police report, Granny’s car was already halfway into the intersection when it was struck. Anita was pinned inside, with broken ribs and a collapsed lung. Egg donor was sitting in an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket. Egg donor looked at me and asked who I was. It took her a few days to remember who she was. She never could remember what happened.

Anita sued the egg donor and my Granny, since it was her car… and won. Anita then became ostracized from the family. My abuser wasn’t allowed around my any more.

My eighth birthday, Anita showed up in my classroom. She had told my teacher that she was my cousin and that she had some medicine for me. I kept trying to tell Mrs. Sandar that she was my SISTER and that she wasn’t supposed to be around me. Mrs. Sandar hated me for some reason, told me to behave and to walk Anita to her car, which was on the other side of the building. As we approached the Jeep, Anita grabbed my wrist and tried to force me into the car. I kicked, screamed and finally bit her until she let go, then I ran back to the playground to hide. After school, the egg donor picked up me up and she knew something was wrong. She finally got the story out of me and, oddly enough, I wasn’t punished. I don’t know what exactly happened, but Mrs. Sandar made life even more hellish for me, so I’m guessing she was reprimanded for almost allowing me to be kidnapped.

Somewhere around age 13 Anita was “forgiven” and allowed back into the family, much to my dismay, because the abuse started right back up again. When I was sixteen, she was over at the house for a visit. She snuck up behind me and snapped my bra so hard it left a welt. I locked myself in my bedroom until I heard her leaving, then snuck up behind her and kicked her ass out the door. She flew out the door, across the porch, down two steps and wound up face down, eating grass. I went to the top of the steps, looked down at her and told her, “Don’t you EVER touch me again.”
I then went back into the house and locked the door. Every time she showed up after that, I would either barricade myself in my bedroom (she would try to break the door down until Dad would tell her to back off), or I’d run out the back door, grab my bike and leave. About every thirty minutes or so, I’d cruise past the end of the street to see if her car was gone. When it was, I’d go back home and face the wrath of the egg donor for leaving without permission and not telling her where I’d gone. It was better than being hurt.

When she was about 50, she was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. When I heard about the diagnosis, it just made so much sense, all the stuff she did. She was also diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, but because of the schizophrenia, she didn’t believe it. She refused all medical treatment and when she was 54, she died of renal failure.

I refused to go to her while she was still conscious. I wasn’t sure what my presence would do to her, if she would revert back to her abusive ways or if she would be able to control herself. I knew that if she attacked me, I’d fight back and probably wind up hurting her. I didn’t want that. So I waited until she was bedridden and mostly incapacitated. I got a chance to be alone with her and I said to her, “Anita, it’s Heidi.”
She couldn’t open her eyes, but her eyeballs just started rolling around like crazy and her eyebrows kept moving, like she was trying to force her eyes open.
“Everything between us is forgiven.” And she relaxed.
I didn’t do it for her. I did it for me. Knowing that she was mentally ill and possibly not in control of her own actions didn’t make it better, or right, but it did make more sense of it.
And I could forgive her. 

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Journal entry from 17 year old me.

Sept 4, 1987 11:30pm

Hi. There's a dance over at Sandy's parking lot and I can't go. Know why?

1.) My car is mixing gas and oil again, 2.) there's a short in the brake lights, 3) they don't trust me to walk, 4) the pick-up "isn't safe" and 5) they don't trust me with the new car. <Sandy's Drive In was .3 miles away from home> So lucky me gets to stay home and brood while everyone else gets to party-hardy. Not only that, my mom is hinting that it's my fault that my car's brake lights stick and that the gas is leaking again. But it IS NOT my fault!

She always blames me when something goes wrong. That's why I hate her sometimes. She never gives me a chance to talk and I'm always guilty until proven innocent. And even if I DO prove my innocence, I'm STILL guilty. And they always ignore me when I ask them something. But I do that, oooh, I'm grounded for LIFE! UGGGHHH!!! I don't know why but I feel like crying. Everybody else is having a great time tonight and I have to stay locked in my room. Why can't Mom and Dad undo the apron strings just a little? How am I s'posed to learn from my experiences when they won't let me have any? I'm a good kid, I don't drink, do drugs or change boyfriends every weekend. I don't sleep with guys, I try to do the right thing, but they just don't give me a CHANCE! How come the <they> always compare me to Anita? More than once I've heard Mom mumble "You're just like Anita!" I am NOT Anita! I am ME!! Why can't they understand that! WHY?