Ia Vang | Damaged Sisters

When I was in elementary school, I hated my sister. I had depression and held onto grudges which developed over time. It wasn’t because I was physically abused every day or any number of horrific things that specifically made me turn into a hateful person towards her, but I was mistreated enough to not want to pick up a needle I found on the ground in hopes of my sister stepping on it. I never pulled through though, I always picked up that needle. 

My sister is a few years older than me, so as I was transitioning from elementary school to middle school, my sister had already been well into her teenage years. With my demanding mother to my many oblivious brothers, my sister has always been troubled. In the Hmong culture, chores and burdens fall heavily on the daughters. Long before I was born, my sister had already experienced serving and slaving over our brothers. This caused mental issues upon my sister, and it didn’t help that my mother demanded these expectations from the start, with little to no explanation as to why she must do everything in the house. 

Because of this, my sister developed a love-hate relationship with our mother. Every time my sister would have an argument with one of our brothers, my mom would take their side even when she knew they were wrong. She would call my sister crazy and console our brothers instead. This was something that happened every time they fought. To try to get my mother’s love, she would run away barefoot in the snow or try to harm herself just to see if she’d come chasing after her. But each time the situation panned out; she would never see my mother following nor was an apology ever made. To a teenager, there was nothing my sister could do to make her life better. 

I slept in the same room as my sister, so every night I would hear her cries of pain and traumatic stories. Sometimes when she was too angry with my mother or when her mental health was kicking her down, she would find me tiptoeing around our room too infuriating and she’d kick me out. Often, I’d find myself locked out of our room at night and my stuff would be thrown out. But I’d linger in front of our room, laying in front of the closed door and frantically peeping under it, afraid of seeing blood or a dead sister. Even when I had nothing to do with her emotions, she’d take it out on me. Some nights I’d lay in bed, my face and pillow drenched with tears, and I’d shake with fear. Some nights I’d breathe very little so that I don’t trigger any bad moments. At times my sister wouldn’t hit me, but her words would be so hurtful that it would be just as painful as being hit. Sometimes she’d leave me dainty scars, however, most of them more prominent in my heart. I was young, so I did not realize she did this out of her own hurt. I thought she wanted to hurt me out of her own sanity. Yet I stayed by the door, I cried after hours, and I still wanted to be with her. She was still my favorite person, she was still my comfort zone, she was my only sister. My brother would help me pick up my stuff and ask why I still wanted to sleep next to her when she treated me like this. I do not remember my replies, but somehow, I knew my sister just needed someone to chase her. 

As I grew older, my sister stopped those habits and stopped hitting me. Mostly because I eventually knew how to hit back, but also because I was older, and she was older. She still had a rocky relationship with our mother, but she knew it wasn’t right to take it out on me anymore. 

We never had a proper conversation about those events, but I understood where she came from, and internally, I forgave her. Years went by and things were steadier. I used to pray for people to have a good night every time I went to bed, but I would skip over my sister’s name, feeling some type of uncomfortable sensation in my chest every time I thought about including her with the people that I wish good things for. For a while, I couldn’t tell her I loved her out loud. She would say it to me, but I’d just mumble it back or refuse to acknowledge it. Deep down, I was still hurt. Deep down, I still held a grudge. 

I am twenty-one now. My sister and I are closer than ever. I have moved out for college but when I go home to her, I rarely go to sleep drenched in tears. And even though I don’t pray anymore, I still wish for goodness to come to her. Some of her habits would come back occasionally, but it wouldn’t be major ones. And yet, I found myself curled back up in a ball the other night, trying to occupy as little space as possible. My sister had gotten angry at her boyfriend, and with me in the room being unaware of her frustration, she screamed at me. Since she couldn’t hit me, she started slapping her phone. The sounds of her taking out her anger on her phone triggered my fear, and the little me came back out. I was breathing as little as possible with tears running across my face, and I was digging crescent moons into the skin of my arms. I was brought back to those endless nights of being afraid to move an inch because it’d make her angrier. That night, I did what little me did and just wished for the night to be over. For the morning to come so I could go back to my apartment where I was allowed to move, and where I felt safest. Just me in my little room, with my little bed, living my little life, and away from the place where I left the little me.