Yesterday was a long and very emotional day. Yesterday would have been my youngest sister's forty-first birthday. Instead it was a day of tears and memories because she died recently of a drug overdose...no, the drugs didn't really kill her, our parents did.
He abused us, molested us, beat us and she let him. They damaged each of us...and after all the times he screamed that he would kill us, he finally got his way. I cried, a lot yesterday, and have tears in my eyes as I type this. Now the first cousin she was bedding and sharing the junkie lifestyle with is holding her ashes hostage, refusing to let her daughters have them to get them to their Aunt, my other sister. To say I hate his skanky ass is putting it mildly.
Didn't we suffer enough as kids? Wasn't the neglect, the sexual, physical and emotional abuse we suffered at their hands enough drama?! All we want is her remains to see that they are treated with respect and dignity not strewn someplace she would not want to be or knowing the junkie who has them, snorted.
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