THE SISTER WHO SAVED ME

by Cristal N. Pittman

“You know suicide is selfish, right?”

I honestly don’t know why I said it. Even as the words left my

mouth, I didn’t believe them. I understood why she would

attempt to take her life. And when I say I understood, I mean I

understood, intimately, what causes a person to get to that point.

I was the youngest of four children: two older brothers and

one sister. My sister is two years older than I am. This is not the

sister who saved my life. This sister, and dare I be dramatic

when I say this, traumatized me. I hope this doesn’t make my

sister sound like a bad person. She’s not the villain in my story.

Although if I had written this just a few years prior, this essay

may have read very differently. I don’t know why my sister and I

couldn’t have the kind of sisterly relationship that you see on

television. Do I blame Cain and Abel? Did they destine us all for

sibling rivalry dating back to the days of the Bible? I don’t know.

All I know is that the first time my daddy told the story of how

my sister pushed my newborn body off his lap on my first day

home from the hospital, he laughed, while all I could think was,

“That’s where it all began.”

What could I have done as a newborn to frustrate my two-

year-old sister to dislike me so? Nothing, of course, but this story

helped me realize that it wouldn’t have mattered what I did; my

sister just wouldn’t like me. I tried. And man, did I try. But we

were so different, she and I. She was taller, prettier, more

talkative, and popular. The boys gravitated towards her. And to

top it all off, she had teeth that could have been featured in

Dental Weekly. Seeing as I had sucked my finger from the womb

and well into my adult years, my teeth would never be featured

anywhere—teeth that would later be fixed thanks to the United

States Air Force and some great dental work. To me, she had

everything I didn’t. I don’t know if she knew this as we grew up.

It’s possible, but either way, we were different. And that gap

grew as we grew.

Don’t get me wrong, the days weren’t always bad. We got

along a lot of the time, as siblings often can, but I don’t think I

was her cup of tea. And to be honest, she wasn’t mine.

Now here I sat at the other end of the phone spewing this

garbage to my sister, who had just been released from a

psychiatric hold. Her dejected “I know” was filled with shame.

And I had just caused her to feel that. Even with all we went

through, I knew she didn’t deserve that. It makes me wonder,

even now, how I—someone who suffered with my own mental

health—could mishandle someone else who was currently

struggling with their own. Isn’t that what’s actually selfish? Or

maybe just ignorant?

This conversation with my sister was after my second attempt

to take my life. She had no idea. I didn’t tell anyone. I was too far

away from home and everyone; I didn’t want to bother them. It

would be selfish of me to worry them. What could they do when

they were, what felt like, a million miles away?

Looking back, I wish I had connected with my sister and told

her that I knew how she was feeling. But I didn’t. I just ended the

call and went back to my own misery. I would attempt to take my

life again for the third time, only a year after that call with my

sister.

While my sister and I weren’t close, I did have friends. But

even in these friendships, I felt like an outsider. I looked at my

other friends who had closer relationships amongst our friend

group, thinking that I would never have that kind of deep,

intimate friendship I yearned for. But for a long time, this was

enough, until my junior year of high school.

On one particular day, the entire class was loud and talkative.

Maybe it was the excitement of the first class of the day. I have no

idea where our teacher was at this time. I honestly think she had

given up on caring at this point in our third semester. My friends

and I were on one side of the oddly shaped classroom that we

claimed as our own. All our other classmates were on the

opposite side. In walked the new girl. The entire room went

silent. It probably felt more dramatic than it was. I’m sure it was

only a matter of seconds but considering how loud we were

before she walked in, the sudden hush was noticeable.

I don’t want this to read like a corny television show script.

Our intentions were never to make her feel exposed and

awkward. But all of us had grown up together. Most of us had

known each other since the beginning of Junior High, so to see a

new girl walk in when we were almost at the end of the school

year, and she was drop-dead gorgeous…well, that would be

enough to silence anyone. I felt drawn to her, though I couldn’t

understand why. I went back to talking to my friends. She went

to sit across from us on the “other” side. Our then, self-

proclaimed leader of our friend group told one of us to tell her to

come sit with us.

Now, I feel this is an important detail to share, because one

thing I have never been known for is confidence. That was my

sister’s bit, so I don’t know why I spoke up, but I did.

“Hi,” I said with a smile and a self-assurance that surprised

even me. She looked over with no kindness or malice—just

looked. “Do you want to come sit over here with us?” She was

unsure. Not afraid. Just kind of wondering why the seat she’d

chosen wasn’t good enough that I would be suggesting she sit

elsewhere. I was sure she would tell me no. I was even preparing

for it from the expression on her face. Surely, I wasn’t pretty or

popular enough for her to consider being my friend. But instead,

she said, “I guess so.”

Was it by chance that I had an empty seat right in front of me?

I don’t know, but that is where she sat.

“I’m Cristal,” I said as I began to introduce our other friends to

her. “What’s your name?”

“Joy.” She wasn’t very talkative at first. Who would blame her?

We were smack dab in the middle of a Disney Channel after-

school special and here I was putting her right on the spot.

I felt her discomfort and changed the subject to our school pep

rally that we had the day before. We were in the class of 2004 and

were joking about the current seniors' chosen chant for their

class. I made a joke, and this was the first time she laughed or

smiled since she walked into the class. It was genuine. I think she

had decided she liked me and had chosen me in that very

moment.

From then on, we were together all the time, even in classes

that we didn’t have together. If you saw one of us, you saw the

other. After school let out, we would not leave without seeing

each other. Each night, we talked on the phone to plan what we

would wear the next day. I tried to match her designer clothes as

best I could. Most people will never know what it feels like to

have a friendship so real that you don’t know how you managed

to make it through so many years of life without them. I have

been fortunate enough to know this kind of platonic love for

well over twenty years now.

About a month after meeting her, I attempted to take my life

for the first time. I don’t know why I felt comfortable enough to

share this information with her, but I did. I would never have

told any of my other friends. But something in me knew that I

could trust her the same way she knew that we would be friends

after that first joke I’d made.

When I told her, she wasn’t sure how to process it. But there

was no judgment in her eyes, just concern. I realize now, with

tears in my eyes, that she was meant to come to our high school

at the exact time she did. Joy listened with love. Even then, her

sixteen years of age gave way to wisdom and encouragement that

was far beyond her years. It was exactly what I needed: to feel

heard, to feel seen. Our friendship couldn’t have been better

written in any storybook.

We were inseparable…until we weren’t.

Joy and I cried in sync exactly twice in our lives. The first time

was when she went away to college for her freshman year. The

second time was before I left for basic military training to join

the Air Force. We weren’t used to being apart. It didn’t feel

natural. I like to think that our crying in sync was our innate way

of knowing that things would never be the same again. The

military took me away from a friendship we had become

comfortable with for so long.

The military. Does it have a special affinity for people who

suffer from mental health issues? Maybe there’s a special dog

whistle that only people like me can hear while Uncle Sam says,

“I’ve got another one to break. This should be fun.” The military

tugged at a certain insecurity I didn’t realize was so deeply rooted

in me. Pass your physical training test. Your performance reports

need to be pristine. Make rank, because that is what’s important

—how you show growth. And while you’re at it, respect your

superior’s rank, whether you agree with their leadership style or

not. You have to be good. No, scratch that. You have to be better

than good.

Look perfect. Act perfect. Be perfect.

I was not.

I had always done really well in school. I got straight A’s. I was

on the honor roll. I was a part of the National Honor Society, the

editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, and more. I was smart.

But perfect? Not in a million years. My sister often reminded me

of this very fact. And now, it seems as though the military had

taken this role from my sister. Had they done a handoff to ensure

continuity for my distress? The world’s greatest Air Force now

held the reins to make me feel unheard, unseen, undone.

It was while I was in the military that I was diagnosed with

Major Depressive Disorder. Basically, I would have depression

for as long as I live; there was no getting better. They say that

depression is genetic; that it’s usually passed down from one or

both parents. At least, this is what a psychiatrist would later tell

me. She said this parent may have had a problem with alcohol or

some type of addiction. Almost immediately, I felt as though I

had figured out the meaning of life. I envisioned the time my

sister pushed me off my daddy’s lap. At a time when I was too

young to remember, yet I somehow have a vivid memory of. So,

maybe that is, in fact, where it all began. With me, my sister, and

my daddy on that couch—our fates, determined by DNA and a

little more.

My dad’s issues with alcohol certainly caused enough trouble

for his career with the Army. Even more issues with his marriage

to my mom, with them divorcing when I was four years old. But

was he the reason that my sister and I both struggled with this? Is

this where it all began? Would we have been any different with

another father? Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe that’s not the

point at all.

Later, as I sat in what the military called a “down day” to

discuss all the things that could make people want to take their

own lives, I was hopeful. The Air Force knew that suicide rates

were only increasing each year, despite the mandatory training

they implemented. Trainings that all but said, “Suicide? Bad.

Living? GOOD.” I had hoped these down days would erase the

stigma of talking about suicide while forcing leadership to realize

there was a desperate need for a culture shift in the Air Force.

Clearly, I was naïve.

“Suicide is selfish.” The words fell callously out of that full-bird

Colonel’s mouth like ragged bricks. Surely this couldn’t be

coming from the man who was meant to lead this charge to get

us talking about suicide. But it did. I had decided at that moment

that people like him were the very reason people try to take their

own lives so often in the military. The lack of concern and

empathy was appalling. I sat seething, wishing I could do

anything. But I just sat here remembering how those exact words

dropped from my mouth to my sister’s ears only a few years

prior. Yes, I was indeed selfish.

At that point in life, I was farther away from Joy than I had

ever been. And I don’t mean in miles. I mean mentally. There I

was, hiding the fact that I’d tried to take my life an additional

three times. I didn’t want to bother her or be the “Debbie

Downer” who is always sad. This is what I would later tell her

when I finally told her the truth.

“You can tell me these things,” she says as I hear her choking

back tears. She can’t be emotional because right now she must be

strong for me. And I hated that I made her feel this way because

this is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I knew I could tell her

anything. But I didn’t want her to feel helpless. She had her own

life, her own family. I didn’t want her to feel like she had to do

anything. Except now, I realize that she wouldn’t have been there

for me because I made her feel like she had to. She would have

been there because she wanted to, because she loves me. She

listened as I told her the story. The same way she did all those

years ago, at sixteen years old: with love and no judgment, saving

me all over again without even realizing it.

She made me promise never to go through anything like that

by myself ever again; to never leave her out of my pain. I’ve kept

my promise. I share when I am feeling low. And I have not

attempted to take my life since then. With therapy, prayer, and

God, I have learned many tools to recognize patterns and

behaviors. I know who I am. And my sister and I have a great

relationship today. We finally connected to the things that make

us the same rather than the ones that divided us. Funny how it all

seems so trivial now. But knowing who you are can open your

eyes to see what you were blinded from before.

Suicide isn’t inherently selfish, but it isn’t selfless either. And

maybe that’s the point, because we aren’t meant to “do life” by

ourselves. We’re meant to connect. The way I was meant to

connect with my sister on that phone call all those many years

ago. The way Joy connected with me in High School when I

shared my pain and again years later. Connection doesn’t save

everything, but it changes everything. It opens the door to hope.

And maybe that’s what saves us. Not a grand gesture, but the

simple act of reaching out or listening. And maybe that’s enough

to save ourselves—to save each other.