I don’t know if my sister is a full-blown narcissist, or if she just has a few traits. Surprisingly, she never announced a diagnosis. She never carried a banner, or a crown and sash of professionally attributed suffering. She has been to therapy on and off, but whenever I imagine her in that setting, I see a person tormented by her own victim-hood, convinced that the world is hard and against her. That despite her best efforts, everything and everyone is wrong.

She has had a rough early life, and she has been dealt a tough hand. Being our mother’s daughter is just the beginning, and having chronic pain is just the tip of the iceberg. I acknowledge her pain, but I have stopped making excuses for her. I have turned my back on her, and although I still feel warmth towards the sister I had decades ago, I no longer feel much for the person she has become. What I feel isn’t even anger anymore, neither hurt nor sorrow. Pity has replaced those feelings.

I see somebody who spends most of her energy focused on her misery, on what other people are doing, and on how she can maintain control. The controlling part, I believe, is unconscious, but it must be exhausting never the less. When we lost our dog, she wasn’t upset at our loss. She was angry that her daughter didn’t tell her. When her daughter dreamed about a new tattoo, she proclaimed it wouldn’t look good on a girl like her. When somebody has a loving marriage, she ridicules that devotion. And when somebody does something that she won’t, she takes it as an insult, another grudge to hold onto, another opportunity to become a victim.

It is easy to see why she needs to assert herself. She fills the air with tension when she gets upset. Her husband becomes an emotional punching bag, although he gives her everything she asks for. She needs the world to stop and notice her whenever she feels slighted. That is her version of control, or the illusion of it, as she has nothing else.

It is just as easy to see how she might turn away from the reflection in the mirror. This is what I wonder: can she see herself? Is there a hint of insight in her mind? Is she aware, at least a little, of the misery that oozes from her into her family?

Lately, I have seen myself behave in ways I hated. I have acted a little like her. I was resentful, couldn’t be bothered to hide it. I brushed off my husband and denied him what he needed. I did things with a sigh and obvious annoyance when asked for intimacy. I felt myself be a void that sucked the light right out of our little world. That feeling is like eating glass. It cuts and wounds you all the way through, and leaves you feeling hollow afterwards.

I used to wish my sister could be my sister again. To stop insisting there is nothing wrong with me, and to actually make up for the damage she has done. To see me, and not the version of me she can control. To see us together, as we could have been.

Now, what I wish for her is ignorant bliss. I believe it is too late for her to correct herself, to mend what she has broken. If she woke up now, looking at the wreckage all around her and the everlasting sorrow in her loved ones’ eyes, then all she would have is the taste of blood in her mouth and glass in her throat. Better she never knows. I’ll let her keep her crown, while I walk away. I’m still healing, still bruised where she held on too tight, but at least I have my freedom, and the ability to look at my reflection.