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Meehra's story

Both quite introverted, my sister and I at least had each other as friends. In gatherings with family friends, we chatted in our corner with the loud buzz around us, too shy to join in. Everyday, we laughed about stupid things, ate our fish and chips after school and talked in wonder about the countless new things that one comes across when growing up.

When I graduated from high school and joined her at our local university, things became different. She was always out and when she wasn’t, we fought. I didn’t understand why she was suddenly such a difficult personality, but I didn’t really care at this point, I had my own life and friends.

After university, I started a new job and by this time, my sister and I rarely spoke. One night, coming home from work, I found out that my sister had been taken to the hospital. She had suffered some sort of breakdown. That evening we all found that she had depression for quite some time and had reacted badly when she stopped taking her medication. Strangely, everything became so clear. The change in our relationship, the fighting and secretiveness, it all just made sense.

Visiting her in the psychiatric section was incredibly awkward. How do you play nice with someone you virtually hated for six years?  All we managed were shy smiles. I didn’t know how to behave. It felt patronising to suddenly change my behaviour towards her. Also, we were so different we probably wouldn’t have been friends in real life, and after six years of silence, I barely knew her at all.  In any case, I soon left to live abroad.

Throughout the years I always felt an inexplicable dissatisfaction that was only ever fixed by drastically changing my circumstances. While living overseas, I myself developed depression. I could no longer outrun it. It inhabited my body, keeping me awake with its constant taunts, imposing its weight contemptuously on my shoulders, making it an incredible effort to even get out of bed and walk down the street.

By this stage, my sister was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Her condition was so severe that my mother needed to be her carer. I remember the crack in my mothers voice as she asked what she ever did that was so wrong. I felt she didn’t need to find this out about me yet. In addition, I didn’t want to feel people’s pity. I didn’t want to see those patronising shy smiles aimed towards me.

I eventually revealed to my mother about my depression. She was asking me why I hadn’t worked in over six months and I told her.  Since then I’ve found it quite difficult relating to her. This shift from being disappointed in me for “doing nothing” for six months, to being incredibly supportive, I just couldn’t deal with. Spending my days learning to be stronger, her reaction was only a reminder that I am just this fragile thing.

As for my sister and me, we both talk when we see each other online but it does feel strange. We don’t really have anything to talk about. She is basically a stranger. Sometimes I feel that effort is only there because we are family. But in any case, there is no harm in it. Who knows? Maybe one day, with time, we’ll learn to be close again.