Illustration by Soju Sor
Just spent close to an hour searching online for anything about my sister and found two accounts of her, one on Instagram and it's private, and one on Twitter and there is only one post and it says, "New life" in Russian and with a smiley and it's posted later same year when I came out publicly about our father abusing me and my sister telling me I'm crazy and ending all ties with me online and deleting all her accounts. I'm sure she blocked me everywhere she could as I can't find her on Facebook or anywhere else, and it's no use asking my step-mom how I can find her because she tells me she doesn't want to talk to me and so I should leave her alone, and so I do, but damn, for some reason it's really hard. I called my step-mom yesterday to wish her happy birthday and found out that my sister is drawing comics and selling them, and I got so excited and then I got so depressed and I'm still wallowing in it today. I wish I could see what she is making. I wish I could tell her she is awesome. I wish I could share it with you all. I wish I could read her comics. I wish I wish I wish.
I don't know if I'll ever see her again? I hope I do. I really miss her, and it makes me heartbroken and angry at the same time at our father who broke up a family with his violence and who doesn't give a shit about my pains and never had, and so I pour it all into Janna. I get so mad when I write it, I get mad at all men I just want to kill them all, AND IT SCARES ME, THESE THOUGHTS, I think, "What kind of a monster am I?" and then I get mad again, mad at how in patriarchy men who see themselves as superior make us women police ourselves for the crimes THEY MEN HAVE COMMITTED and we women then hurt each other, and those men walk around without any consequences. I'm mad because when I was looking for my sister, from those two little icons that I saw I glimpsed how fragile she is and how terrifying it must have been for her when I dropped all my pain online, with all its gory guts, for everyone to see, and I'm mad I was driven to this in order to survive, it was either throw it in everyone's face or kill myself, and I'm mad that I'm still in so much pain and so she must be too, if she doesn't want to talk to me, and this madness eats me like poison. I have no choice but to write it out or I will hurt myself and that won't do anyone any good. Because miraculously I'm not a murderer, haven't been fucked up enough to become one, so I became a writer.