Litany for Chrissy

By Kaitlin Kerr

I’ve always been close with my little sister. Growing up, we were in the same dance classes and shared the same bedroom. We even ended up going to the same college.

We were never bothered by the sameness, the closeness. We enjoyed each other’s company. Much to the dismay of our mother, after driving through three states to a family party, we’d ignore the sea of uncles and grandmothers and cousins. Always ending up hiding in a far-off corner. With a bounty of stolen cookies from the dessert platters. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, muddling our special party dresses. Giggling together.

Despite the fact she’s exactly three inches taller than me (but it’s okay, I wear four-inch platforms), I’ve always understood what it meant to be the big sister, to be looked up to. I understood my role as a companion, a confidant, and a role model.

Knowing she was there, watching me, made me better.

I refused to talk negatively about my body, knowing we share the same figure.

I refused to make myself quiet, knowing we share the same roaring laugh.

I refused to bite my tongue, knowing we share the same wit.

Soulmates are the people in our lives that we have an unexplainable affinity for. We love them, as if our beings were meant to unite. Honestly, I don’t know if I believe in soulmates. Truth be told, when it comes to love, I’m a “Miranda”-level cynic. But isn’t it a nice idea?

That two souls can intertwine.

Were meant to intertwine? 

The summer I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (garnished with Acute Anxiety Attacks), I wasn’t exactly a big sister. I wasn’t exactly a person. It was after my first year away at college and got bad once I moved back home.

By then, we weren't sharing a room anymore.

I cried almost every day. Sometimes I’d hide it, silently reclusive in my bed.  Sometimes I’d burst in the middle of dinner. Sometimes it was in the car. Most of the time it was without reason.

I spent most of that summer in a black hole.

Our dad thought I should try some drugs to help calm me down. Our mom thought I was too young for Xanax.

I was nineteen years old. My eyes permanently tinged red and patched blue. She was sixteen years old. And somehow, she knew what I needed.

I remember one particularly bad evening. I was comatose with my eyes open, swaddled in sheets soaked in the stench of a showerless week. Sometimes the safest thing to do when you’re like that is just lay down and teach yourself how to breathe.

She came into my room with the night breeze, carrying an offering of sweet peach tea. Her long golden auburn hair still dripping from the shower. Seeping and staining her white cotton pajamas.

Then instead of tenderly sitting at the foot of my bed like she was visiting a hospice patient, the way my mother did, my little sister belly-flopped herself on top of me, the way I used to when we were kids and I was up before her on Christmas morning.

She never asked why I was upset. She never asked me not to be. She met me where I was, and made sure I wasn’t alone.  

I was almost too numb to care back then.

Almost. 

I still knew what it meant to be looked up to. I was supposed to be her companion, her confidant, her role model. What kind of role was I modeling if I couldn't get out of bed?

I could’ve told her that I was seeing a therapist. That I was taking bright orange and green pills. She probably wouldn’t have cared. Hell, she’d probably be happy that I was getting help. But I am not immune to pride. She still saw me as her big sister. Her confidant. Her companion. Her role model.

I couldn’t show her the world inside my mind.

My earliest memory is picking up my little sister from the hospital. I was only three at the time. I’m not sure if this is a real memory, or if I’ve fabricated it through secondhand stories and dreams. I remember the ride in my aunt’s minivan. Listening to the radio instead of my mom’s familiar show tunes CDs. The grey plastic leather of the seats. The not-my-mom’s car smell. The layer of my cousin’s Cheerio crumbs encrusted into every crack and crevice.

I felt the same kind of nervous excitement I imagine dancers feel before they go onstage. The kind of apprehension and subtle fear, anticipation and joy.

My mother had read to me I’d Rather Have an Iguana every night for the past month. It’s a cute little picture book about a sassy stubborn older sister who is simply not happy about having a younger sibling, but despite the little girl’s best efforts, her parents decide to go through with it anyway. Although I did not share the protagonist’s proclivity for reptiles, I never resented the idea of sharing my life with another person.

Perhaps I am exceedingly lucky, or perhaps this happens with all siblings, but I feel as though I’ve shared my life with her. Not in milestones or rites of passages, per se. In the way we share the same figure, laugh, and wit; we share the same character, morality, worldview.

I remember walking into the yellow where my mother lay, glowing in the warm autumn sun. The glint of the gold wire on her old glasses. The exhausted and ecstatic energy. I remember my mother in a voice like honey telling me that she missed me.

I remember my father holding a bundle of cream blankets. Him telling me that she might look like my baby dolls back home, but my little sister was not a toy.

I remember reaching out for the bundle. Holding her for the first time, supported by the hands of my anxious father. I remember being surprised by how warm she was. Feeling her body expand with each breath. Knowing she was small and fragile and precious.

I remember loving her.

Soulmates are the people in our lives that we have an unexplainable affinity for. We inexplicably love them, as if our beings were meant to unite.

I continued to live past that summer.

And the summer after that.

Recently, my little sister confessed that she was thinking of therapy herself.  In stumbling phrases, I attempted to describe how she helped me. How she’d somehow known I needed to be sat next to, brought offerings of sweet tea. How I’d wished that I had been more open about what was happening inside my mind. In her own stumbling reply, she explained that she’d never have asked for help if I hadn’t gone first.

 I understand now that I was never in danger of losing a soulmate.

It took time and therapy and tears, but I’ve been demoted from Major to Dysthymic depression. Slowly, I became able to acknowledge and speak about the world inside my mind. It’s a little scary at first, but hopefully with enough jokes sprinkled in, you’ll understand too. I explain how the orange and green pills make me feel. How to find a good therapist. How to use your support system. How to ask for help.

To be a confidant, you must share your own secrets.

To be a companion, you must open your own soul.

To be a role model, you must share your own tears.

Accept offerings of blankets and tea.

Let your soul intertwine.

Let your heart burst.

Kaitlin is a senior at Northeastern University studying English, with a minor in Writing and a concentration in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Her poetry has been published in Spectrum Literary Arts magazine, and her opinions have been published in Tastemakers music magazine. When she’s not writing, Kaitlin enjoys tormenting her kitten, hunting for vintage clothes, and the occasional video game.