The three years are described as a nightmare in my family. My mother consistently tells me, “It was a nightmare that I woke up into, and I’m glad it’s finally over.” A nightmare. Something every child fears when they shut their eyes. Something I have lived through. Something, I would say, I have not woken up from.

The effects of what happened still swirl throughout my every day, and I must accept them in order to keep sanity from flying out the window. I must accept them to ensure I do not give the same nightmare new breath. I watch as Mom pours herself into Al-anon, a 12-step program to help those who have had or currently have alcoholics in their family. They call it a disease there, the alcoholism that plagued my sister.

I was a little girl living in a perfect bubble of a suburban neighborhood. At the age of nine my only worry was if I was going to be able to see my friends after school. I did not have the slightest clue about true unhappiness. I wish I could forget the look on my father’s face that particular Thursday. The solemn eyes, the defeat in his voice as he told me that we needed to have a family talk. Something was off; my father was never one to sound defeated. He had the personality of a bull, strong and hardheaded. It is my mother who tames him. The soft spoken Hispanic who is never without a smile. That day however, my mother’s eyes were glistening with tears. The discussion was about my sister, who was 20 and in her sophomore year of college. I can remember the exact dialogue seven years later.

“Nena, your sister is very sick.”

“She has cancer?”

“No, this is a different type of sickness.”

“Is she going to die?”

“No, sweetheart. We are going to get her tonight and she will be staying with us for a few days. You will stay at Michael’s house. We will get you around eleven, all right?”

“Okay.”

And so, I went over to Michael’s house, my best friend at the time. I remember talking to him about it. I remember being confused about how my sister could be so sick that she had to come home from college. My sister was my hero, the person I wanted to become. She had long, perfect brown hair that cascaded down her back. She had small hands that danced across the piano keys. She was the one with the funny, spunky personality; I thought she was perfect. I wish I hadn’t. The disillusionment of perfection hit hard and fast.

As I walked into my house later that night with my sister at my side, I remember the anger burning in her eyes. The waves of her resentment crashed over me. This was not the person who had come to visit only two months earlier. This was not my hero, but I held out hope that she would shine through.
It was almost immediate; the transition from her being in college to her going to her first rehabilitation center. The change was immediate in my household as well. Suddenly, my mother’s tears couldn’t be held back; they coursed freely down her face daily. Every Sunday we took a 45-minute drive to visit my sister and have a family walk. Every Sunday I saw my sister’s piercing eyes filled with resentment.

Every week, I was put in the car to go visit the person who had upset my carefree lifestyle. The ground had shifted beneath my feet, and finding balance was a nearly impossible task. No longer were the days of a perfect suburban bubble. Instead, I had an angry bull for a father who would take his frustrations out by yelling. I had a mother who never seemed happy, who either ate too much or not at all.

I had been pushed to the background; yes they loved me, but I was no longer asked the questions – those irritating ones like, “How was your day? How was school? Did you do anything fun?” The questions every child rolls their eyes at were the questions I craved to be asked.

The clouds started to clear. My sister had achieved three months of sobriety, and Mom was smiling again. My father was less stressed and, in turn, I was happier. I could see my family slowly knitting itself back together.

But sunny days only last so long. The clouds tumbled in again. We were riding in my dad’s beat-up Camry. Things almost felt normal. Then the phone rang, and my mom’s hand went over her mouth as sobs wracked her body. There was disbelief in her voice. My sister had re-lapsed or, more likely, had never gotten better. Her roommate had been sneaking in drugs and alcohol. To top it off, my sister was diagnosed with bulimia. The sunny days vanished; a hurricane showed up instead.

Every day seemed to be worse than the last. When my father was not taking out his anger and frustration by punching inanimate objects or yelling at me, he was fighting with my mother. My mom would vanish into the dining room every night, to avoid dealing with him. But she avoided me too. Like any child, I grew to think I was a burden. I was not enough to make them happy. I was not enough to take their stress away, to fix the mistakes that caused this disaster in a once-happy home. I grew to hate myself; I grew to hate the sister who had once been a hero to me. Her perfection had vanished, and with it, the happiness of the household I was forced to reside in for the next eight years.

And so, she began the next rehabilitation treatment. This time it was a wilderness camp in Arizona. There, my sister would walk off-trail with meager food rations and supplies for weeks with a band of others going through similar life events.

My sister was allowed to write home. She and my mother corresponded, bonding like they never had before. My father was visibly happier, and my mother’s tears stopped. However, the damage my sister had caused was heavy in my heart. Hatred boiled in my blood – for her and for myself. It boiled to the point where when she came home, I didn’t want anything to do with her. Of course, she never realized that her actions had such an impact on her innocent little sister. The little sister who would keep to herself for years in fear that the next person she adored would betray her as horribly as her sister had.

After she came back from Arizona, it was a breeze. All she had left was one last rehab center which taught her how to live on her own while fighting addiction. After that, she returned the treatment center in Arizona to work, leaving destruction in her dust and not quite understanding the deep impact she imparted on our family.

I was given a book. It is called The Butterfly Effect. It explains how a butterfly flapping its wings sets off a chain of reactions. The book highlights the theory that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The simple rule I had been taught in school applied to my life in a very personal way. Because my sister chose to drink, to lie, to escape responsibility for her actions, she left my mother crying, my father enraged, and a little sister with a home in smithereens. The butterfly effect was indeed something I had learned; it is something I carry in my heart.

Now, I realize why it affected my parents so much to have a daughter who became addicted to escaping the horrible world she created. I can see that my mother cried because she was reminded of the alcoholics she called Mama y Papa. I can see why my father reacted violently after growing up being beaten. The butterfly effect started long before my sister had her first sip, but her flap of wings knocked me down. It was only after I raised myself up that I could appreciate the lesson. Every small action is a flap that can cause a storm.