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Bedtime Confessions III

My sister is suicidal. At twenty-eight years old, Sister slit her wrists on Valentine's Day, 2002. She recently confessed: "I did it for the glamour of it."

Sister is divorced, no kids, and claims to be the happiest woman in the world now. "Zaftig, believe me those days are behind me. I'm living, girl," she says with earnest.

I can't help but worry. Sister has bad days and good days; we all do. But we all haven't slid razors into our flesh or starved ourselves for weeks. We don't all have such scary secrets that not even God can wretch free. Sister carries this.

I call her every day and she puts on good for me, but I hear it in her questions: "Do you think "Kelly" (our cousin) likes my clothes?" Why? Is Sister going somewhere?

Yet, I live. I love life. How can two girls who've been reared similarly yet life means two different things to both. A burden. A gift.

Sister says, "I'm living, girl."

So I live.

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