Abandoned the Day My Heart Needed Them
On the day I'm diagnosed with dependent personality disorder, my family treats me like I'm the most fragile porcelain.
My parents put me first in everything.
Mom even quits her executive job to stay by my side during treatment.
The day my condition finally stabilizes, they smile with genuine relief for the first time. Even my adopted older sister, Winifred Linberry, smiles.
She says, "I told you Sadie wasn't that sick. She just wanted to hog your attention."
That day, my parents scold her for the first time and insist she apologize to me.
On the night she goes to a class reunion, I quietly mention that my heart feels a little uneasy.
Dad suddenly slams the medicine box in his hand onto the floor.
He roars, "Can't you be a little more considerate? Your sister just lost her competition and she's already upset! We've spent every day revolving around you. Can't we spend just a few hours with her?
"If you don't feel well, take your medicine yourself. We've had enough!"
The pills scatter across the floor.
He grabs his jacket and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Mom looks at me, as if she wants to say something.
In the end, she says nothing and follows him out.
I don't say a word. I simply dig my fingernails into my arm as my breathing becomes more and more difficult.