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gorilla. Suddenly, a suitcase is hurled from off camera into the cage. The gorilla immediately attacks it, flings it, hurls it, and stomps it. Eventually, after failing to destroy it, the gorilla loses interest in the suitcase and ignores it. I always thought of myself as that suitcase. But it wasn’t just me. My sister would go after any suitcase, anyone who would get into the cage with her and call her on her addiction or mental illness. Over time I had given myself permission to stay out of the cage.
When she was young, the gorilla inside my sister made only occasional appearances. As she matured her volatile emotional swings came at an increasingly frequent and unpredictable pace. With the slightest insult, she would burst into a verbal tirade designed to wound her perceived attacker. But when her depression and anxiety lay dormant beneath the surface, she had a quick wit that could be charming instead of cruel. She had a svelte, athletic build and inherited the perfect combination of our parent’s best features. She married young and had a baby as soon as possible. But her mental illness took a relentless hold of her and began to blot out her inherent goodness. Her emotional instability became difficult to ignore. I believe her volatility perplexed her as much as it did us, and she sought help from myriads of psychiatrists and therapists without benefit. She fought against her illness and ensuing substance abuse and hid it for many years. In her twenties and thirties she played the convincing roles of devoted mother, loving sister, and kind daughter. But at some point, I don’t know when or why, her demons won out, causing her to seek solace in beer, then tequila and vodka, and eventually she mixed the alcohol with Ativan.