What\u2019s the worst thing your sister ever did to you? Did she steal your clothes? Read your diary? Kiss the boy you liked?<\/p>\n
My sister\u2026 my sister pretended to have my chronic illness for attention. And when she finally got caught, she tried to murder me by destroying my life-saving medication and filming my body as it shut down.<\/p>\n
My sister, Jade, is five years older than me. And for as long as I can remember, she has treated my type 1 diabetes like a personal insult. Like I\u2019d gotten a special toy she wasn\u2019t allowed to play with. When I was diagnosed at eight, the attention in our house shifted. Suddenly, it wasn\u2019t all about Jade\u2019s ballet recitals or her perfect grades. It was about my blood sugar, my insulin injections, my doctor\u2019s appointments.<\/p>\n
She grew to resent me for it. She\u2019d \u201caccidentally\u201d hide my glucose meter right before dinner. She\u2019d steal the juice boxes from my \u201clow\u201d stash in the pantry. She\u2019d whisper to our parents, \u201cI think she\u2019s just doing this for attention, Mom. Her friends all think she\u2019s so brave.\u201d<\/p>\n
When I was 10, she threw away my entire box of insulin pens the night before we left for a family camping trip. I ended up in the ICU for three days in diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA). She told our parents she thought it was \u201cjust an empty box.\u201d They believed her. They always believed her.<\/p>\n
At school, she\u2019d tell everyone I was \u201cfaking symptoms\u201d to get special treatment, like being allowed to eat a snack in class if my sugar was low, or getting extensions on tests if I\u2019d been up all night managing a high.<\/p>\n
My parents\u2026 they told me to be patient. \u201cShe\u2019s just jealous, honey. It\u2019s hard for her when you get all the medical attention.\u201d They had no idea how dangerous her \u201cjealousy\u201d was about to become.<\/p>\n
When Jade was 18, she announced at dinner that she, too, was sick. She\u2019d been feeling \u201cdizzy and shaky\u201d between meals. She\u2019d \u201cborrowed\u201d one of my old glucose meters and dramatically scrolled through the history, claiming some of the wonky, high-and-low blood sugar readings were hers.<\/p>\n
My mother, who had spent a decade dismissing my real symptoms, immediately sprang into action. An endocrinologist appointment was made for Jade. My sister started telling all her friends, with a brave, trembling lip, that she was \u201cprobably about to be diagnosed with diabetes, just like me.\u201d<\/p>\n
The blood tests, of course, came back perfect. Normal A1c, normal fasting glucose. But Jade insisted the doctors had \u201cmissed\u201d her \u201creactive hypoglycemia.\u201d She\u2019d done her research. Within a week, she was demanding the same meal schedule I had. She\u2019d time her \u201cfake lows\u201d to match my real insulin schedule, collapsing in stores, her hands shaking uncontrollably, demanding juice while panicked strangers rushed to help her.<\/p>\n
She was a terrifyingly good actress. She had studied me for a decade. She perfected my real symptoms: the specific way my hands trembled, the slight confusion and slurring of speech that came with low blood sugar. She\u2019d time her \u201cepisodes\u201d for maximum attention. The worst was at my 16th birthday party. Just as I was about to blow out the candles, she staged a \u201csevere crash,\u201d convulsing on the living room floor until someone (my father) gave her a piece of my cake. The paramedics who were called found her blood sugar to be perfectly normal, but she just claimed their meter was broken.<\/p>\n
Our parents spent thousands on specialists who all found nothing wrong. Jade joined online diabetes support groups where she spread dangerous misinformation to actual diabetics. Her new theory? She was having low blood sugars due to \u201cproximity exposure\u201d to my insulin. She demanded we get separate refrigerators. She\u2019d wake our parents up at 3:00 AM, claiming she was \u201cdangerously low,\u201d forcing Mom to stumble downstairs and make her a full breakfast, while I was often alone in my room, silently handling my real 3:00 AM blood sugar issues with a juice box and a prayer. I wasn\u2019t a baby, after all.<\/p>\n
The truth finally, blessedly, came out at Thanksgiving. Jade was in the middle of her usual dramatic \u201clow,\u201d shaking and slurring her words, when our cousin, visiting from out of state, looked up from his phone. \u201cThat\u2019s weird,\u201d he said. \u201cI just saw her in her bedroom an hour ago eating a huge stash of Halloween candy. Like, a massive bag of Snickers.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jade froze. Mid-shake.<\/p>\n
Our aunt, a registered nurse, didn\u2019t miss a beat. She grabbed Jade\u2019s (my old) glucose meter and pricked her finger right there at the table. Everyone stared.<\/p>\n
\u201c95,\u201d my aunt announced, her voice flat. \u201cPerfectly normal.\u201d<\/p>\n
The shaking stopped immediately. The slurring vanished. Jade\u2019s face went white. \u201cI\u2026 it was treatment! For an earlier low!\u201d she stammered.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d my aunt said, pulling out a new test strip. \u201cLet\u2019s test you again in 10 minutes.\u201d She did. \u201cStill 95. Funny. No diabetic\u2019s blood sugar stays that stable 10 minutes after eating a pound of chocolate.\u201d<\/p>\n
That night, our parents finally went through her room. They found her diary. It was all in there. She\u2019d been faking for over a year, meticulously researching every aspect of diabetes to make her performance more convincing. They confronted her. They told her she had 30 days to find somewhere else to live.<\/p>\n
She screamed. She cried. She said they were \u201cchoosing their defective child over their healthy one.\u201d But for once, her manipulation didn\u2019t work. They were done.<\/p>\n
But Jade wasn\u2019t done.<\/p>\n
The next morning, I woke up to my insulin pump beeping. EMPTY RESERVOIR. Impossible. I\u2019d just changed it the night before. I ran to the (shared) fridge. All my backup insulin pens\u2026 gone. My emergency glucagon kit\u2026 gone. I sprinted to my bedroom, to the hidden supply of vials I kept in a shoebox under my bed\u2026 gone.<\/p>\n
I found Jade in the kitchen, standing by the sink. She was holding my entire supply of life-saving medication. All of it. Vials, pens, everything.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I can\u2019t have diabetes,\u201d she said, her voice chillingly calm, \u201cthen neither can you.\u201d<\/p>\n
She\u2019d already flushed half of it down the sink. Thousands of dollars of insulin, just gone. The rest, a handful of vials, she held over the open garbage disposal.<\/p>\n
I had maybe six hours before my blood sugar would skyrocket. Without insulin, I\u2019d go into diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA). My blood would turn acidic. I\u2019d start vomiting, my organs would fail, I\u2019d fall into a coma, and I\u2019d die.<\/p>\n
It was the Friday after Thanksgiving. Black Friday. The pharmacy was closed for the holiday weekend and wouldn\u2019t reopen for three days. The nearest 24\/7 hospital was two hours away. My parents, trying to find some normalcy, had gone Black Friday shopping at dawn and weren\u2019t answering their phones.<\/p>\n
I was alone. And she knew it.<\/p>\n
\u201cHere\u2019s what\u2019s going to happen,\u201d Jade said, her finger hovering over the disposal switch. \u201cYou\u2019re going to tell Mom and Dad that you coached me. That you taught me how to fake this whole time because you wanted someone to \u2018share the attention\u2019 with. You\u2019ll admit you helped me fake all those episodes. Or\u2026 I destroy the rest of this insulin, and you get to experience what a real diabetic emergency feels like.\u201d<\/p>\n
My blood sugar was already rising. I could feel the first symptoms. The sickeningly sweet, metallic taste in my mouth. The overpowering thirst. The slight, oily nausea that would soon become violent vomiting.<\/p>\n
She smiled, a cold, knowing smile. She saw me doing the math, calculating how long I had. \u201cChoose quickly,\u201d she said, tilting the vials toward the drain. \u201cYour blood sugar\u2019s already climbing. You\u2019re sweating already. What\u2019s that? 400? 500? How long till your organs shut down?\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at the vials. My life. Right there in her hand. The disposal hummed beneath them.<\/p>\n
\u201cJade, please\u2026\u201d I started, my throat already dry.<\/p>\n
\u201cWrong answer.\u201d She dropped one full vial into the disposal and flipped the switch. The grinding noise of the glass and plastic was the most terrifying sound I\u2019ve ever heard.<\/p>\n
I lunged, but she held up the remaining vials like a weapon. \u201cThat\u2019s one down. You\u2019ve got maybe four hours now, instead of six. Want to try again?\u201d<\/p>\n
My hands were shaking, not from a low, but from adrenaline and the toxic rush of high glucose. I backed away, my mind racing. Landline? Living room. Cell phone? Upstairs, charging. Even if I got to one, who would I call? Cops? Paramedics? They\u2019d take 30 minutes. She\u2019d destroy everything, and it would be her word against mine.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can see you calculating,\u201d Jade said, moving to block the kitchen doorway. \u201cThere\u2019s no way out. Just tell them what I want you to say, and I\u2019ll give you back your insulin. Simple trade.\u201d<\/p>\n
I glanced at the small kitchen window over the sink. It was a long drop. Jade saw my eyes move. She grabbed a large kitchen knife from the block and set it on the counter between us.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t even think about it,\u201d she said, her voice still light. \u201cI\u2019m not going to stab you or anything dramatic. But I will use this to puncture every single one of these vials if you try to leave this room.\u201d<\/p>\n
The nausea was getting stronger. The metallic taste of ketones was thick in my mouth. My body was already breaking down fat for energy, poisoning my blood in the process.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know what the funny part is?\u201d Jade continued, setting the knife within easy reach. \u201cI actually learned so much about diabetes from watching you. I know exactly what\u2019s happening to your body right now. Your cells are starving. Your liver is dumping more sugar to try and \u2018help,\u2019 but it\u2019s just making it worse.\u201d<\/p>\n
She was right. I was probably pushing 300 by now. The thirst was unbearable. I needed water, but I couldn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n
\u201cIn about an hour,\u201d she said conversationally, \u201cyou\u2019ll start vomiting. Then comes the confusion, the weakness. Your breathing will get rapid and shallow as your body tries to compensate for the acid. I\u2019ve seen you in DKA before. Remember when I threw away your insulin before that trip?\u201d<\/p>\n
The memory\u2014the ICU, the pain, my parents\u2019 worried faces\u2014made me angry enough to focus.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat nearly killed you,\u201d she mused. \u201cBut it didn\u2019t. Mom and Dad rushed you to the hospital, held your hand for days. And where was I? Shipped off to Aunt Carol\u2019s like I was the problem.\u201d She gripped the vials. \u201cThis time, they\u2019ll have to choose. Their precious, defective sick child\u2026 or their healthy one who just wanted to be seen.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pressed my palms against the counter, trying to steady myself. The room felt too warm, my skin dry and flushed.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happens when I\u2019m in a coma?\u201d I managed to ask, my voice rasping. \u201cWhen they find me unconscious, you think they\u2019ll believe I coached you, after you\u2019ve literally murdered me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re being so dramatic.\u201d She smiled. \u201cYou won\u2019t die. You\u2019ll just get sick enough\u2026 that when I \u2018find\u2019 you and \u2018save\u2019 you with this insulin, you\u2019ll be so grateful, you\u2019ll say whatever I want. I\u2019ve thought this through. I\u2019ll be the hero. Finally, I\u2019ll be the one taking care of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
My vision was starting to blur. I needed to act. But Jade had positioned herself perfectly. Disposal behind her, knife beside her. She was watching my every move.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want some water?\u201d she mocked, seeing me swallow. \u201cYour mouth must be so dry by now. That\u2019s what, 350? 400? How high does your meter even read?\u201d<\/p>\n
I tried to remember if I had any other hidden stashes. An old pen in a jacket? A vial in my school bag? No, she\u2019d been thorough. She\u2019d been planning this since Thanksgiving.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know what I hated most?\u201d she continued, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. \u201cThe way everyone always asked about you first. \u2018How\u2019s Chloe\u2019s blood sugar?\u2019 \u2018Does she need anything?\u2019 Like I didn\u2019t exist unless it was in relation to your disease!\u201d<\/p>\n
The room tilted. I gripped the counter harder.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the special meals, the carb counting, the constant checking! Everything revolved around you. While I just had to be grateful I was healthy.\u201d She laughed bitterly. \u201cDo you know how invisible that makes you feel? To watch your parents panic over every number on your meter, while my straight A\u2019s meant nothing?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut it was all fake,\u201d I managed to say.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo what?! The attention was real! The concern was real! For once, I mattered as much as you!\u201d She held up the last few vials. \u201cAnd now I\u2019m going to matter more. Because when you tell them you helped me, they\u2019ll realize you\u2019re not their perfect sick child. You\u2019re just as manipulative as I am.\u201d<\/p>\n
My legs were shaking. I needed to sit. Don\u2019t show weakness.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe thing is,\u201d she said, almost bragging, \u201cI got really good at faking lows. The shaking, the confusion\u2026 I practiced in the mirror for hours. But you know what I could never, ever fake?\u201d She gestured at me. \u201cThis. The way your skin gets that weird dry flush. The fruity, nail-polish-remover smell on your breath. The way you keep swallowing because your mouth is so dry. That\u2019s real DKA. And it\u2019s what\u2019s going to kill you if you don\u2019t agree to my terms.\u201d<\/p>\n
My heart was racing, trying to pump the thickening, acidic blood. I had to get that insulin. But if I agreed\u2026 she\u2019d own me. Every real low, every high, every time I felt sick, my parents would look at me and wonder. Is she faking this? Is this another one of their \u2018games\u2019? She wouldn\u2019t just be taking my life; she\u2019d be taking my truth.<\/p>\n
\u201cTik-tok,\u201d Jade said. \u201cHow high can you go? 500? 600? I\u2019ve seen your meter \u2018ERROR\u2019 at 600 before. Remember? You were so sick you couldn\u2019t even stand.\u201d<\/p>\n
The memory made me sway. I was sweating now. A cold, clammy sweat. Not a good sign. \u201cYou\u2019re sweating,\u201d she observed, her voice bright with clinical interest. \u201cThat\u2019s new. Must be the adrenaline mixing with the hyperglycemia. Your body doesn\u2019t know whether to panic or shut down.\u201d<\/p>\n
She was right. I was trapped.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll make it easy. Just nod,\u201d Jade said. \u201cNod yes, and I\u2019ll hand over one vial. Enough to get you through. Otherwise\u2026\u201d She moved her hand toward the disposal.<\/p>\n
I thought about it. My life, or my reputation? What a stupid, simple question. But I knew it wouldn\u2019t end there. She\u2019d hold this over me forever.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re running out of time,\u201d she said, her voice losing its edge, replaced by a strange, glassy-eyed focus. \u201cI can see it. You\u2019re getting that look. How long before you can\u2019t even understand me?\u201d<\/p>\n
The kitchen clock showed 8:47 AM. My parents wouldn\u2019t be home for hours. My blood sugar was well over 400. The metallic taste was so strong I felt like I\u2019d been chewing on pennies. I glanced at the clock. She saw it. Smiled wider.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happens when I\u2019m in a coma?\u201d I slurred.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re being dramatic. You won\u2019t die. You\u2019ll just get sick enough\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
Her monologue repeated. She was trying to convince herself as much as me. I looked at the knife, then at her, then at the vials. Lunging was off the table. My muscles were weak, shaky.<\/p>\n
I made a decision. I nodded. A single, jerky movement.<\/p>\n
Jade\u2019s eyes lit up with triumph. She set down the water glass she\u2019d been holding (she\u2019d been drinking in front of me, the cruelty was endless) and picked up a vial. Then she laughed and put it back down.<\/p>\n
\u201cA nod\u2019s not enough. I want to hear you practice the story. Every detail. How you taught me. How we planned it.\u201d<\/p>\n
My vision swam. The effort to stand was monumental. I needed to speak, but my throat was too dry. Jade sighed, slid the glass of water across the counter. I grabbed it, gulping it down. The relief lasted seconds.<\/p>\n
She pulled out her phone. Started recording. \u201cNow,\u201d she commanded. \u201cTell the story.\u201d<\/p>\n
I tried. I stammered through her fictional narrative. My words were slurred. The brain fog was thick. Simple sentences were complex puzzles.<\/p>\n
\u201cUgh, you\u2019re not even convincing!\u201d she snapped, lowering the phone. \u201cThis is useless!\u201d<\/p>\n
The nausea hit. I doubled over, dry-heaving into the sink. Nothing but bile. Jade stepped back in disgust but kept filming, narrating my symptoms to the camera like a twisted scientist. \u201cSubject is now\u2026 retching. Skin is pale, clammy\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
When it stopped, I slumped to the floor, my back against the cabinets. The cool tile felt good.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need you more\u2026 functional,\u201d she muttered, pacing. She was losing her window. If I passed out before confessing, her leverage was gone.<\/p>\n
She grabbed a notepad, wrote out the confession. \u201cHere. Copy this. In your handwriting.\u201d She thrust the pen at me. My hand shook so badly I couldn\u2019t grip it. It clattered to the floor.<\/p>\n
My vision tunneled. Dark spots danced. Jade slapped my face, lightly. \u201cFocus!\u201d<\/p>\n
She was losing me. She knew it. She made a desperate choice. She drew up a tiny, tiny amount of insulin in a syringe. \u201cJust enough to clear your head,\u201d she said. \u201cNot to save you. Just to make you coherent enough to confess.\u201d<\/p>\n
The needle approached my arm. I tried to pull away but had no strength.<\/p>\n
Just then, a sound. A car door slamming outside.<\/p>\n
Jade froze. Rushed to the window. Peered through the blinds. \u201cDamn it.\u201d It was our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Bufort, getting her morning paper. Jade watched, vibrating with panic, until Mrs. Bufort went back inside. The interruption rattled her.<\/p>\n
She turned back to me. I was slumped further, my breathing more labored. Kussmaul breathing. My body\u2019s desperate, last-ditch effort to expel the acid.<\/p>\n
She held the syringe, hesitating. Giving me any insulin was a loss of control. Instead, she knelt, holding the vials. \u201cWe\u2019ll do this simple. I\u2019ll ask questions. You just nod yes.\u201d<\/p>\n
She repositioned her phone, started recording again. \u201cDid you help me fake diabetes?\u201d A weak nod. \u201cDid you teach me the symptoms?\u201d Another nod. But my movements were small, uncertain. Useless as a confession.<\/p>\n
A new sound. The doorbell.<\/p>\n
We both startled. Jade\u2019s eyes went wide with panic. A delivery truck. The driver stood at our door, package in hand. Jade had to answer. She hid the vials, pointed the knife at me\u2014stay quiet\u2014and walked to the front door.<\/p>\n
I heard her voice, artificially cheerful. The driver needing a signature. The door closing. Her footsteps, fast, agitated.<\/p>\n
She found me trying to crawl toward the living room. I\u2019d made it maybe three feet. She grabbed my ankle, dragged me back across the tile. The movement sent a wave of white-hot pain through my head. Her anger was palpable. Her perfect plan was crumbling.<\/p>\n
She pulled out all the remaining vials, lining them up on the counter. \u201cThis one,\u201d she hissed, \u201cis for the birthday party you ruined. This one, for the vacation that became all about you. This one, for every time Mom checked on your blood sugar instead of asking about my day!\u201d<\/p>\n
She flipped on the disposal. Held a vial over it.<\/p>\n
\u201cLast chance,\u201d she said. \u201cNod. Now. Or I flush it all.\u201d<\/p>\n
But as she spoke, the doorbell rang again. A persistent, steady ringing.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho NOW?\u201d she screamed. It was Mrs. Bufort, back, her voice calling through the door. \u201cGirls? Is everything alright? I saw the delivery driver, and he said you looked\u2026 pale, Jade. I brought some of my Thanksgiving pie.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jade froze. Mrs. Bufort was kind, observant, and very persistent. She wouldn\u2019t leave.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell her we\u2019re fine!\u201d Jade hissed at me. \u201cGet rid of her!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2026 I can\u2019t,\u201d I moaned. The insulin was starting to work, just a little, clearing the fog, but my body was too weak.<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Bufort! We\u2019re fine!\u201d Jade yelled at the door. \u201cJust sleeping in!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, dear, I\u2019m just a bit worried,\u201d Mrs. Bufort\u2019s voice came back, closer. \u201cI know your parents are out, and with Chloe\u2019s condition\u2026 I think I\u2019ll just use the spare key to check.\u201d<\/p>\n
Our parents had given her a key for emergencies. This was it. Jade\u2019s face went white. She knew the game was over. She looked at the vials, at me, at the knife.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I\u2019m going down,\u201d she whispered, \u201cyou\u2019re coming with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
She grabbed the last vials and lunged for the disposal. But the insulin, that tiny dose, had given me just enough. As she turned, I wasn\u2019t crawling. I was standing. I\u2019d used the counter to pull myself up. I grabbed the first thing I could reach\u2014the heavy, wet cast-iron skillet Mom had left soaking.<\/p>\n
I swung it. Not at her, but at her phone, still recording on the counter. It shattered, screen spiderwebbing.<\/p>\n
\u201cNO!\u201d she shrieked, momentarily distracted.<\/p>\n
It was all I needed. I grabbed the kitchen knife. Not to use, but to hold. \u201cGET BACK!\u201d I screamed, my voice raw.<\/p>\n
She stared at the knife, then at me. Her \u201cvictim\u201d was armed. Her \u201cproof\u201d was shattered. And in the hallway, we both heard the sound of a key in the lock.<\/p>\n
Jade made her choice. She threw the remaining vials, not into the sink, but at the wall. They smashed, glass and precious insulin spraying everywhere. \u201cIf I can\u2019t win, neither of us do!\u201d she screamed, and bolted for the back door, just as Mrs. Bufort entered the front.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, dear Lord!\u201d Mrs. Bufort gasped, taking in the scene: me, swaying, holding a knife, surrounded by broken glass and the overwhelming, sweet smell of insulin. The kitchen looked like a warzone.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2026 she destroyed it,\u201d I whispered, sliding down the cabinet, the last of my strength gone. The knife clattered to the floor. \u201cAll of it\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s okay, child,\u201d Mrs. Bufort said, already dialing 911. \u201cHelp is coming. I\u2019ve got you.\u201d<\/p>\n
But as I looked at the floor, I saw it. The syringe. The one Jade had prepared with that tiny, life-clearing dose. It had rolled under the counter. During the chaos with Mrs. Bufort at the door, I\u2019d grabbed it. Hidden it. I\u2019d already injected it, right into my thigh, just as the sirens grew louder. Jade hadn\u2019t destroyed everything. She\u2019d left me just enough to survive.<\/p>\n
Paramedics found me on the kitchen floor, conscious but in severe DKA, surrounded by glass. They found Jade hiding in the neighbor\u2019s shed, hysterical, claiming I had attacked her.<\/p>\n
It didn\u2019t work. The evidence was too overwhelming. Mrs. Bufort\u2019s testimony. The shattered vials. The knife. The state of my body. And the final, beautiful nail in her coffin: her phone. The SIM card was destroyed, but the memory card was intact. The police recovered her videos. The ones of her taunting me. The one where she narrated my symptoms. The one where I, barely conscious, was forced to \u201cconfess.\u201d<\/p>\n
My parents arrived at the hospital to find me in the ICU and their eldest daughter in police custody. Their denial finally, violently, shattered. They saw the footage. They heard my testimony, and Mrs. Bufort\u2019s. My aunt, the nurse, flew in and took no prisoners, dressing them down in the hospital hallway for their years of willful, catastrophic neglect.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s been nine days. This morning, I was released from the hospital. My dad installed a biometric safe in my room for my new, triple-stocked supply of insulin. My mom is a shell, quiet, finally listening, and enrolled in intensive family therapy.<\/p>\n
And Jade? I heard she was crying in court this morning. They read the charges out loud: felony destruction of property (over $3,000 of insulin), reckless endangerment, false imprisonment, and assault. Her lawyer tried to argue \u201csibling rivalry.\u201d The judge, after watching the video of me seizing while Jade monologued, set her bail at an amount my parents couldn\u2019t (or wouldn\u2019t) pay. She\u2019s being held for full psychiatric evaluation.<\/p>\n
The detective told me my family home is a crime scene. I\u2019m staying with Mrs. Bufort for now. Her house is quiet, and she makes tea I actually like. I don\u2019t know what happens next. I don\u2019t know if my family will ever be \u201cnormal\u201d again, or if I even want them to be. But I\u2019m alive. And for the first time, everyone knows I\u2019m not faking it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
What\u2019s the worst thing your sister ever did to you? Did she steal your clothes? Read your diary? Kiss the boy you liked? My sister\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3105,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3104","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-viral-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3104","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3104"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3104\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3106,"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3104\/revisions\/3106"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3105"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3104"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3104"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/humorssite.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3104"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}