the smart sister
Petunia was the smart sister. Always had been, always will be. At least that’s what she’d been told.
She wasn’t so sure she believed that anymore. Because her grades weren’t even that good. Sure, she wasn’t bad at school. But she was a B-student with occasional A’s.
Over the years, she’d started to hate every second of it. Hated how her parents called her the smart one as if that meant anything to her.
Petunia had realized she wasn’t really smart years ago. When she’d study for all her exams, only to be rewarded with a B.
When all her friends surpassed her in her classes. When she started falling behind. She used to tell herself it was okay. That she’d just study more next time. That next time, it would all be better.
But next time was never better. She’d studied, studied day and night, for hours on end, only for her grades to be even worse.
The first time Petunia had a C in maths, she broke down in school. Started crying in front of her friends, saying she failed. When she came home, her mother laughed at her, saying it wasn’t a bad grade and she shouldn’t feel so bad about herself.
But her mother didn’t get it. She’d never get it. Because if Petunia wasn’t smart, then what was she? Lily was pretty, at least. If she failed her classes, which she didn’t, she’d still be pretty.
But Petunia wasn’t pretty. All she had was her brain, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Because as much as it hurt her to say, she was just average. Not stupid, but not smart either. Not ugly, but never pretty.
She watched her friends get good grades. She watched them fret, saying they didn’t study, or only studied a few days.
Then watched them get A’s, all while clutching her C.
She knew she was a terrible friend. She knew she should be happy for them. But all she felt was jealousy. It burned her up from the inside, all white and hot and it made her so angry.
Because it was so bloody unfair.
She worked so, so hard. Desperately trying to be better. To prove that she was smart. Maybe to herself, maybe to her parents, maybe to the world- she didn’t know, really. But it never worked.
And there they were, just these smart people that just understood how everything worked. And she was jealous, so jealous that she hated them for being smart, the same way she hated herself for not being good enough.
But it wasn’t like she had anyone to tell this to. Her friends wouldn’t get it. Her sister wouldn’t get it. And Petunia had long given up trying to tell her parents anything, for her father was always busy with work and she didn’t want to burden him with her silly little issues. And her mother … well, her mother had shown that she didn’t get it.
Wouldn’t get it.
So, Petunia kept it inside her. Kept that loathing, that hatred, that jealousy bottled up inside her chest, pushed a smile onto her teeth and grit out congratulations.
She knew it was fake, and she knew that she looked fake. Yet no one seemed to notice. No one ever said anything.
It was only years later that Petunia started to talk to someone about all this.
Not a therapist, as she’d wanted to since she was twelve. But her coworker, at her first part time job.
Lisa was a twenty-five year old woman, who was preparing to enter university. Petunia clung to her like a little sister would to an older one.
Because Lisa was like an older sister in every sense. Whatever Petunia asked. Whatever she had to say, Lisa always had an answer.
So Petunia spilled her her heart.
Confessed things that she hadn’t said out loud, ever. Only written into her diary, but she trusted this woman.
She confessed wanting to die. Confessed self harming. Confessed the jealousy, and the hatred, and the desire to be skinny.
Confessed to thinking of ending it all. There wasn’t enough energy to keep going.
Every relapse, she could see the end creeping closer.
And Lisa was there, and she listened. That was when Petunia realized, the right people would listen. She realized that letting it all out was something she had so desperately needed.
Lisa soon moved away to study at university. Petunia lost contact.
But there was one thing that stuck with her that she’d said.
“I always knew that you weren’t the happiest person. But I never imagined it to be this bad.”
And this one statement did everything for Petunia. She’d felt seen. For years, she’d just concluded that her emotions were masked so well, no one could see what was going on. But this one woman had noticed. This one woman had cared enough to check in on her, and to notice.
One woman that had passed on to another part of her life, their paths having split.
But she was who made Petunia realize that the right person will listen.
And that she didn’t want to be silent anymore, waiting for others to find out that she wasn’t doing okay.
If Petunia wanted to be better, she needed to ask for help.
And so she did. Asked her father for mental help. Got the therapy sessions she’d wanted for years.
Foolishly thinking that it would make her happy. That it would magically cure her. Cure the emptiness inside her.
But every session that passed, Petunia stayed the same. Stayed bitter. Stayed sad. Stayed jealous.
Because all those years of hiding, of pushing down her emotions had given her time. Time to rethink every interaction, every word ever uttered towards her. And it made her realize why she turned out the way she did.
Why she lashed out at her parents whenever they asked if she was okay. Because they did ask, now. But they didn’t when she was thirteen, when she was desperate for anyone to show that they cared.
Why she felt annoyed whenever her parents told her they loved her. Because she didn’t need them to tell her now. It all felt fabricated. Every day, her parents would tell her they loved her to the point where the words made her want to throw up. Because they became meaningless. If they loved her so much, why couldn’t they show it to her? Maybe years ago, maybe now, because all Petunia heard were these empty words. It felt as though her parents believed that everything would be fine if they just said that they cared.
Why she got so triggered whenever Lily would interrupt her sentences. Because Petunia had never been a talker like her. Petunia always kept quiet, leaving her sister room to talk. And when she finally came out of her shell and started telling about her day, and her hobbies and her interests, it was already too late; the structure had already established itself. Lily talked and talked, and Petunia tried to. She really tried to, but she let Lily interrupt her and talk over her until she didn’t want to say anything at all anymore.
And worst of all, Petunia knew she was being childish. She knew she had no one but herself to blame for her depression. She knew she shouldn’t hold grudges like a little child that hadn’t been loved. Her parents weren’t obliged to shower her in love and affection. They hadn’t meant any harm by comparing her and Lily. They hadn’t considered the consequences of their words, because they too were just people.
They didn’t know that Petunia absorbed their every negative word like a sponge, ingesting it and letting it fester until it took over her mind.
Lazy. Selfish. Fat. Ugly. Pig. Disrespectful.
She told herself now whenever she looked in the mirror. Not consciously, maybe not. But she was never satisfied. Never satisfied with the way she looked. Because she simply knew she could never be Lily.
So therapy didn’t help. Petunia went for a year and a half, before she concluded it was wasted money. It may have helped to talk to someone about all her issues, but it didn’t help her get better.
So she quit. Pretended to be fine to her therapist. Pretended she didn’t think about digging a knife into her skin every time a small misfortune happened. She’d stayed clean a multitude of times. She’d relapsed a multitude of times, too.
Life from that point on became a game of pretend. Pretending to be happy. Pretending to be social. Pretending to care.
All whilst she was rotting away inside. Playing with thoughts of jumping off the next bridge. Or throwing herself in front of the train.
But she never did attempt. Maybe because she knew that life was beautiful. She knew there were people who loved her, people who’d miss her. But sometimes she just got so exhausted. So, so tired. And she stopped caring. She stopped caring about the others, about how beautiful life can be.
Because there was no energy left to keep going. She had long given up hope of ever being happy. But she kept wondering if this was really how she wanted to life.
If this life was even worth it.
Because what worth has a life in which she’s drudging along? What purpose does living have if you’re not really living?
What is the use of staying alive if it’s always going to be like this?
And Petunia knew, oh she knew that there was a possibility. A possibility of being happy. Maybe minuscule, but she knew it could happen.
But perhaps it was her pessimism, or the feeling that nothing good would ever happen to her, instilled by her past failures, that led her not trying again.
And so she lived on. Existed on. A shell of what she could have been. Drifting along in life, growing older, bitter and cold. A ghost of what could have been.
A woman who she herself didn’t know, for she had forgotten ever being happy.