By: Harrison Abbott

My sister Michaela had had problems with her sleeping for years. So she went to the doctor and the doctor prescribed her a form of sleeping pills. They worked at first. Michaela would call me up and tell me that she had managed to sleep for a full eight hours – for the first time since she was a girl.

Then she began to sleep in for work. And this wasn’t good. And when she turned up to work her manager noticed that she was groggy and not functioning as well as she used to. He asked her what was up? Michaela said she didn’t know. She hadn’t realised she wasn’t performing as well as usual. She apologised, and vowed that it wouldn’t continue.  

And then at the weekends she started to take a sleeping pill in the afternoons, because she wasn’t at work. Michaela lived on her own and didn’t have any kids or a cat or dog. She did have a boyfriend. Then her boyfriend stopped coming around. Michaela called me up, and told me that he’d broken up with her. She was crying. It wasn’t like Michaela to cry, but I understood heartbreak pretty well and so I consoled her as best as I could.

Then her boss gave her a disciplinary because she didn’t turn up to work when it was a super important day. It was a yellow-card warning. Michaela messaged me about it. She said, “I took two of the pills the night before instead of one. And they knocked me out. But I won’t do it again. My boss likes me, so he won’t fire me. Haha.”

I couldn’t really judge Michaela for what was happening because I’ve had an issue with beer for most of my adult life. And, throughout these long, long years, I have kept it secret from other people. I find my drinking embarrassing, and I do it on my own, in my bedroom, mostly, in the dark. I didn’t criticise Michaela. But it wasn’t as if I was a champion of sobriety, and that I could advise her, either. So what I suggested she do was book some time off of work, and that she could come and visit me for a while. I lived by the sea. It was nice here. Maybe the beach air would do her some good.

She agreed. And she came over to stay with me.

She’d gained quite a bit of weight. Again, not judging. Because I had as well, in recent times. It was weird because when we were little we were both so skinny. Michaela is my big sister, but she’s only two years older, and we’ve always been quite close.

In the afternoons she would start to shake. I first noticed it when we were out walking on the beach. Her fingers would tremble and her shoulders would spasm and she seemed agitated. She wasn’t rude or anything; only she was distracted and couldn’t fully concentrate on the conversation.

When she got back to the flat she would disappear into the bathroom for ten minutes. I knew what she was doing. And then she’d come out of the bathroom in a relaxed manner. And suggest that we watch a movie, or that we cook some food. If we watched a movie, she would zone out and her eyes would go all gluey; and if she was preparing the food for the meal, she couldn’t cut the vegetables fast and she would sway about as she stood at the counter.

I thought about seeing whether she wanted to go and see a therapist about things. I looked up the sleeping pill drug she was taking on the internet. None of the pharmaceutical information made much sense to me. And, by the way, I was drinking throughout this period as well. And the alcohol made me affably naïve that there wasn’t a larger problem.

She took her pills in the afternoon and before she went to sleep and probably in the morning too. And I drank from the morning up until the afternoon, and when she slept, I did as well, and at night it seemed like we had achieved something by the fact that we were still alive.

I loved my sister. She was funny. And intelligent, too. We talked about books and she told me entertaining stories from her travels across Europe. It was just that, when she zonked out with the pills, it kinda cut off the chapters from each of her days, so that she was like an abridged version of herself. And, it was the exact same with me.

There was one day when it was particularly hot. We walked along the beach and the sunlight dazed our senses and we went back home early. We fell asleep and slept through the full afternoon.

I woke up around six in the evening, feeling like crap. And then I went into the living room. Michaela was on the sofa. She’d forgotten to hide her tub of sleeping pills and it was right there on the table. She was lain on her side, awkwardly, with her elbow under her back. So I moved her on to her front, in fear that she might puke up. And I went down to the shop in town and bought two crates of beer.

When I came back home, Michaela was awake. Sitting up on the couch. I had an open beer in my hand, and I looked at her and she looked up at me. She started crying. So I went and sat next to her. Some of the pills had fallen on the carpet; these small lemon-yellow capsules. Was she crying because I had seen them? I put my arms around her, to show that I wasn’t angry. I didn’t really feel anything aside from personal weakness. She ducked her head into my torso. And she shook and shook. And she said,

“How did I ever get to this stage?” I gulped, because I was trying not to cry as well. And I didn’t want to say anything in case my voice cracked and so all I did was hold her tighter and closer. And she moved in to me harder as well. So I think that helped both of us a little bit.