My sister Shannon was a charismatic and funny person with sky-blue eyes and simple yet classic style. She was four years older than me, and she was definitely the cooler sister. Everyone loved her. People paid attention when she talked and her punchlines were always perfectly timed. She loved The Doors and Beastie Boys, and I felt so cool when she drove me around in her burgundy Mustang.
It was a blessing and a curse to have such a charming sister. I both idolized and envied her. She was my closest ally, my worst enemy, my role model, and my party buddy. She was my loudest cheerleader and my biggest critic. So, as I watched Shannon Mariah slowly die of cirrhosis in 2010 and 2011, I transformed from a loving younger sister to an angry, steely stranger who was repulsed by her and her behaviors.
I couldn’t understand why Shannon kept drinking when there were so many consequences. I was dumbfounded on why she chose to drink and ignore the dumpster fire around her. I obviously didn’t understand addiction even though it was scattered throughout my family. I didn’t understand that as her addiction got worse, Shannon needed alcohol to survive. It was similar to how she needed air to breathe. Watching her crumble into addiction was so painful to me, and I built an emotional wall to shut her out. I could not handle the feelings that came with losing my sister, my best friend, my guide. I was so afraid of being without her—someone so charismatic and beautiful and important who was there for me my entire life.
As the cirrhosis ravaged her liver, I watched her beautiful blond hair fall out in clumps and her skin turn from yellow to green to gray. I wanted so much to hug her frail frame, but I was too afraid. I could not, WOULD NOT, show any vulnerability and allow my heart to feel.
I watched Shannon dance in and out of hospitals and detoxes, and dabble in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. She never felt like she belonged there, or anywhere really. Never once did I offer to go to a meeting with her. I never held a safe space for her. I felt like I was mourning the loss of my sister when she was still alive. She was only 34 years old when she died on September 7, 2011—my birthday.
On the morning of her death, I was going through withdrawal—I was out of my benzodiazepines prescription. My family told me about Shannon, and I was in shock, but had more important things to do (namely, my appointment with my doctor to refill my prescription for Xanax). This is how I lived my life for five more years: drinking wine and misusing prescription medication to deal with my trauma, anxiety, grief, and mental illness. I didn’t realize that I was following in Shannon’s footsteps, and if I didn’t stop I would also die from my addiction.
For years, I wallowed in guilt and shame over how I didn’t support my sister in her time of need. Once I stopped using and drinking, I realized that I had so much to offer people who were in the same situation as we were. I could have helped her, but then I slowly and sadly realized that I couldn’t. I was sick, too. My addiction to alcohol and medication would not allow me to care for my loved ones the way they deserved.
The anniversary of Shannon’s death is coming up—September 7—which is also the day I turn 40. Since 2011, I usually get this anxious feeling in my gut whenever my birthday comes around. People don’t usually talk about Shannon or the anniversary of her passing too much, perhaps out of fear they’ll upset me. For the past few years, I have been trying to consciously celebrate my sister a little bit more on this day, to honor her life and to keep her memory alive. It is challenging, yet it is also comforting.
Through recovery, I have slowly dealt with the grief of losing my sister to alcoholism. Today, as a woman in recovery, I realize that I did the best that I could at the time. I have forgiven myself and Shannon. I have also developed a spiritual relationship with the universe and truly believe that the spirit of my sister is still with me and living through me.
Her name was Shannon Mariah, and she was my sister.
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