Each time an addict stumbled off the train, I was angry at my sister. Now she's gone

This First Person column is the experience of Sara Murray, who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

The call woke me in the middle of the night. My dad's voice on the other end of the phone, "She's gone. Catherine's gone."

In January, my sister died after a 14-year severe addiction to alcohol. She was 29.

I didn't cry that night. Instead I made phone calls, first to my mom, then to my brother. I wanted to know they were OK. I wanted to pretend that my sister's death didn't affect me the same way it did them.

Early the next morning, I drove with my husband and children to my brother's house. Our family and friends gathered in his living room to listen as my mother outlined Catherine's burial plans. Still, I did not cry. 

After the gathering, I found a quiet room where I could message the people in my life that I thought should know about her death. At the end of the message, I wrote "her struggle is over." The truth in those words released a part of me that I had thought I had lost. My husband found me curled into a ball on the floor, gasping for air through my tears. 

But there was relief — I had finally forgiven my sister. 

I spent a decade being angry with Catherine. Her alcoholism fractured my family and robbed me of a meaningful relationship with my only sister. Frustration toward her addiction spilled over into many corners of my life. 

Every time I picked up drug paraphernalia on my lawn from the addicts stumbling off the CTrain, I was angry with Catherine.

When my daughter and two sons would return from the park moments after leaving the house because there were people sleeping at the playground, I was angry with Catherine.

Then there was the night I made beds on my bedroom floor for my children because they were terrified by the intruder who had kicked down our door and stole our jewelry. There was no proof addiction was the cause, but I was angry with Catherine.

I saw her in the face of every addict I encountered. I became bitter.

A large part of my frustration came from the confusion I felt toward her struggle. Growing up, there was rarely alcohol in our quiet, suburban home. Our parents were married and worked jobs that provided us with a comfortable life.

During my third pregnancy, the midwife asked me if I had a family history of addiction. I told her about my younger sister. She glanced at my age on her chart, then became alarmed.