Eyes Wide Shut
How the experiences with my younger sister’s mental illness taught me to love, support, and re-evaluate the ways in which I perceive pain
By McKenna Hunt
Dear Sister,
I can still recall the exact moment I found out.
I remember how the rain fell in plump droplets on the burnt orange puffy raincoat that you always wanted to steal, yet could never fit into. The brisk October air penetrated my skin with each harrowing gust, quickening my pace. I felt overwhelmed with responsibility — before and after the phone rang, five simple words slipping from our father’s mouth, stopping my heart, and letting the floodgates burst.
“Your sister has been admitted.”
I thought I understood what it meant to be mentally ill. I thought I could relate.
When juvenile boys broke my heart 10 times over, I struggled with deflating thoughts. Was this depression? Was my raging temper and occasional elation due to bipolar disorder? I had no clue. All I knew was that I thought I could relate to you and your experiences. I thought they were the same. I now realize that I was painstakingly wrong.
It wasn’t until dad called me crying — choking, gasping for words, that I realized I hadn’t the slightest clue about what the term “mentally ill” meant.
Sometimes it takes your sister being admitted to the psychiatric unit of the local children’s hospital to make one confront their shallow notions of what it means to hurt.
As the eldest, I inherently bore responsibility for the situation — understandable, yet vain and insignificant. I assumed your struggles were a direct result of me leaving for school or petty arguments over stealing a blouse, not because of a chemical imbalance in your head.
How can I help? What can I do? Where do you need me?
These questions constantly floated around my mind but this was something far out of my control. Big sister couldn’t come to the rescue.
I resented the monster that so swiftly swept you up, transforming you into someone I didn’t recognize — a shell of a human that never left their bed, wasn’t able to carry a conversation and was triggered by the slightest notion.
Those days were hard and they hurt. I wept, I screamed and I felt like I was already mourning the loss of a family member. The monster had won, or so I thought. I grew weary and angry. Constantly asking: Why me? Why us? Wondering why you couldn’t just “get over it?”
In time, I learned that mental illness required the same level of care and patience as a broken bone.
Nearly one in five U.S. adults experience some form of mental illness every year, according to the American Psychiatric Association. Although the term is riddled with stigma, mental illness is nothing to hide from.
Realizing that just because you seem to be doing well for a time, didn’t mean you were all of a sudden over it. Mental illness comes in varying shapes and sizes. Yours came in the form of intense depressive and manic highs. It made us think that it was over when in reality, it wasn’t and probably never will be. This is okay. Learning to overcome and co-exist with your monsters is something that many people with mental illnesses do, and I have full faith in your ability to fight. I always admired your tenacious nature.
Although this journey is yours to navigate, know that you have a band of supporters at your back, ready to fiercely love you till the cows come home.
We knew this process wouldn’t be easy because we never wanted to see someone as strong and brave as you go through something so heinous as mental illness. Although it has weighed heavily on everyone involved, we understand that this challenge is yours.
You are the one who has come so far and continues to face the beasts from within. You are the valiant warrior in this story and we commend you for it.
The road has been long and winding, but through the roadblocks I have been taught what it means to hurt, and in essence, what it means to love.
Godspeed, dear one. I love you so.
Sincerely,
Your sister, McKenna