“Whenever she felt like crying, she would instead become angry—at someone else or at herself—which meant that it was rare for her to shed tears.” (Murakami, IQ1984)

I gave my copy of We Need to Talk About Kevin to my mother to take home with her when they left.  While reading it there were several times I thought of her, of what it is like to try to raise a child who was a sociopath.  It isn't that my sister was a murderous sociopath like the character in the book, but there were still similarities.  It is an odd thing to recognize that my sister was a sociopath -- and the fact that I loved her.

Sociopathology is potentially isolating but it does not guarantee isolation.  In fact there were times my sister was rather the life of the party, more outgoing and socially adept than I.  Times that she was easier to relate to, I'm certain, and times that she shone.

But to try and parent a child who is a sociopath is...  I was going to say unimaginable.  But it is not unimaginable, not for me, because I was there.  I remember it.  It was impossible, but not unimaginable.  I do not need to imagine the heartache of being afraid of your own child.  I do not need to imagine what it is like to sleep in fear for your safety, or your child's safety.

She was not always a sociopath, though she was always ill.  But something, many things perhaps, made that illness worse instead of better.  I do not blame my parents, because I believe they were trying with all the tools and resources available to them.  And because if they were to blame then we all were to blame, everyone that failed to help effectively.  Social workers, teachers, counsellors, psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors, friends, family, clergy, administrators.  We all then are to blame.  We all made our efforts, some more lovingly than others, some with more education, some with more heart.  Some with more consistency.  But we all got tired of being unsuccessful.  Most of all, I imagine, my sister got tired of being unsuccessful.

I do not blame my sister, though I was angry with her so often.  Angry with her for what seemed like deliberate self-sabotage throughout her life, for what my mother called her "bloody-mindedness", her insistence on seeing life so bleakly, so cynically, so darkly all the time.  I do not blame anybody anymore.

It is a relief now, at this stage of life, to be done with blame, to simply remember what happened as neutrally as possible.  There is regret, much regret, and there is sorrow and there is emptiness.  There is sadness, an aching sense of loss... I miss my sister.  I regret the damage that has been done to various relationships in my family as a result of this shared and hoarded pain.  But I am not angry with anyone now, not even myself.


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