Summer 2017: The Worst Summer Ever, pt.1

I went into this year like every basic white girl. I had resolutions, goals, and aspirations. I had the typical, “new year, new me” attitude. Well it’s definitely a new me. In January, I was happy, I was at my goal weight, sure I could’ve been more toned but I didn’t really care, I had great friends, I was doing well in school…I was happy. Fast forward to just before exams. I wasn’t as bad as I usually am during finals, but I was still pretty bad. I was stressed, I wasn’t eating, I was drinking too much, I had stress pains, but overall, I was pretty in control – I know it doesn’t sound like it, but trust me, I’m usually much worse. I studied, I was focused, I even found a cute little study spot with my friend. This was my first time experiencing end of year finals in university. I don’t do well with “first times” or “change” – keep that in mind – so having five tests that would decide whether I passed or failed first year was more than enough to send me on a path to a mental break down.

I went home after my first big exam feeling great about it. I was optimistic, excited, and ready to conquer the world, or at least the rest of my finals. When I parked my car I could sense some uneasiness but I pushed it away because I was pumped about my exams and finishing my first year in a few weeks. I was playing house with my adorable little cousin when my mom said the words that every child dreads, “Pais…I need to tell you something.” My heart stopped. Was I in trouble? Is it something bad? Is someone dead? These were the questions that I asked her. Her response was, “No, yes, and no.” Okay so I was in the clear, not in trouble. No one died so that was good, but it was still bad news. My next thought that it must be about my sister.

My sister had been having a rough couple years. She would be finishing her second year of high school in a few months so she was in her rebellious “phase” – phase is in quotations because I never believed it was a phase as much as it was the new her. So I found it comical when people would push it off as a “phase”. When she first started high school she became friends with a bad crowd, which is always the first step to a recipe for trouble. She started dating this guy – the “love of her life” – and things went downhill. Fast. By December she was wearing thick black eyeliner and self-harming. She broke up with the guy and we thought things would get better. Spoiler alert, they didn’t. By grade ten she was smoking cigarettes, smoking weed – all the time, even in the house. Gross. – and was a typical know-it-all, disrespectful, entitled, bad ass kid.

“You need to sit down.” Shit. This really was serious. Is her drug use worse? Did she run away again? Was she cutting again? “Madison’s pregnant.”

Fuck.

She could be faking; she’d done that before. It could be negative; that too had happened before. “She went to the clinic and the test was positive.”

I repeat, fuck.

She went on to tell me that my life would not change – lie – and I was to focus on exams and do my best. I wasn’t even supposed to find out until after my exams but – thanks to her asshole boyfriend who spread it around town – my mom had to tell me then so that I wouldn’t find out from someone from my high school.

She continued to tell me that my lovely, spoiled, and entitled sister just assumed that she’d get my room because it was the bigger one and she would need the space for her bed and the crib. My mom was quick to inform me that she would never let that happen and my room is, and always will be, mine.

And then I cried. A lot.

My mom hugged me and I cried some more.

I wasn’t crying because she was pregnant – that hadn’t really hit yet – I was crying because my sister hated me. I was crying because the feeling was mutual. We had hidden that fact for a while, but it was finally surfacing. We hate each other.

I was crying because I knew, from that point on, nothing would be the same. My parents were being forced into being parents again. My sister was going to be a mother – not a mom, there’s a difference. I was going to be an aunt – something I have yet to say out loud. It was official, the two things I hate the most were becoming my reality. I was embarking on a summer “firsts” and “change”.

So I cried.