For my sister, Alison

This essay was written as a part of my senior year high school language class. Some sentences were updated for cohesion on May 3, 2025. Writing this essay changed my life, it helped me understand myself, and it is my proudest written work.

“How It Feels To Be A Different Me”

In the spring of 2015, I was browsing the markets of Paris. On a school trip, I was searching for gifts to bring home to my family. Surrounded by the smell of crepes and coffee with the bustle of the city in the background, I sifted through the assortment of colorful hats, patterned scarves and shimmering jewelry at a corner store. A colorful pashmina caught my eye. It’s unique pattern jumped out out at me, and immediately I knew this was meant for my sister.

My sister, Alison, was unique, different, and a bit eccentric. It was strange how this orange scarf seemed to be made for her. I could already see her wearing it in my mind, with her many layers of colors. As a child, Alison and I were as thick as thieves. Her, being twelve years my senior, was an important figure in my eight year old eyes. I remember trying on her clothes, draping them around me, and running throughout the halls of our house. We were goofy together, making up silly nicknames for each other and talking in ridiculously deep voices.

As I grew older, some things that my sister struggled with and suffered through that I was oblivious to as a child seemed to appear before my eyes and I no longer saw her in the same light. I always loved her, yes, somewhere deep inside of myself, but as I began to shrug off her hugs and ignore her texts, my heart grew cold towards her. She was so different, so outspoken, so embarrassing to me. She would embarrass me in front of my friends and family, my parents would spend less time with me because Alison was in another situation, and her frequency to speak her mind would most often appear in situations where it was inappropriate.

Let me clarify, and in no way justify my actions, that Alison, since the age of twelve, lived a life full of things I simply could not comprehend at the time; mental illness and substances. These continued relapses wore on my family and caused my parents pain I will never fully understand. It was difficult, for everyone. At church, we might stop to chat with an acquaintance, the mother of the family would gaze at me with pitying eyes, and ask in a soft voice, “So, how’s Alison doing?” She would receive a short but polite reply from one of my family members and we would make our way out. Of course, this woman meant well, she didn’t fully understand what what was going on and was just trying to be kind. These interactions humiliated me to the fullest extent. How could she embarrass me so? Why did she have to do this?

Despite all of this, Alison continued to stop by the house. She’d peek her head in my room, “Hey Livvy Lou! Whatcha doing?” “Nothing”, I would reply, not looking up from my phone. “Wanna do something fun, wanna go get food?” She would ask. “Look, Alison, I’m really busy. Maybe later.” We both knew I wasn’t busy and I didn’t mean it. Or when she would look at all my pictures hanging around the room, in the course of which she realizing she wasn’t in any of them. “Who’s this? Is this your friend? Where was this taken?” She would ask, trying to get me to just simply talk to her. “Rachel.” “Yes.” “School.” I would reply, snippy and short. Who did she think she was? She thought she could just run around messing things up, my parents would clean it up, and I would act like nothing happened? Absolutely not.

In the months following my sixteenth birthday, I began to venture. I would drive into Minneapolis at least twice a week. I grew fond of the city, with all it’s lush parks, coffee shops, and the unique assortment of people that condensed within it’s boundaries. Alison took notice of this, and would text me often asking if I wanted to meet up for lunch, coffee, ice cream, anything. I would tell her I was busy, and would go out for lunch, coffee, or ice cream with a friend. The few times I did spend time with her in those months, I remember her speaking of numerous coffee and ice cream shops, parks, and cool restaurants we would “have to go to sometime.” I always replied with a “Maybe, I’m pretty busy, Alison.” (2025: Who did I think I was? I was 16 years old. F**k.)

My sister Alison was unlike any person I have ever met, and ever will meet. She was a hipster before “hipsters” existed, living in Uptown in an old brick apartment littered with plants that all had a purpose. My sister loved plants. One time I remember my friend Rachel was over and burnt herself on the stove. My sister Alison lived at home during that time, and quickly ran upstairs to snip off a piece of her aloe plant to rub on Rachel’s skin. I was annoyed and embarrassed. “Look, Alison, it's fine. We’ll just put some Neosporin on it.” “No no no, this is better.” I sighed and stomped off while Alison helped Rachel, who I remember stating that it indeed did work better, which of course I was annoyed at.

My sister ate at the most interesting places, and I am forever indebted to her for showing me bubble tea, which remains one of my favorite simple delights. Alison was a vegan, and would cook my family jasmine rice, veggies, and tofu regularly (which I, of course, hated), but whenever she craved meat, she would eat a chicken sandwich from Chick Fil A, which I still find both hilarious and disgusting to this day. Alison had a unique sense of style, and in my “what-I-wear-factors into-who-I-am-incredibly” middle school mentality, my sister’s ensemble of mixed patterns and colors made me cringe. My sister was incredibly opinionated, and wasn’t afraid to let everyone hear it. More than once her my other sister would get in arguments that put everyone on edge at the dinner table. One of the most prevalent things about Alison was her sense of humor - she was one of the silliest people I’ve ever known. When Alison and I did get along, we would often get a “You two are being ridiculous” from my mom.

All these beautiful, hilarious, and unique characteristics made my sister, Alison Grace Schumack, who she was. She was brave, intelligent, funny, and kind. All of these things were so often overshadowed by her addiction that I began to associate her with two different people; the Alison who cooked us dinner and the Alison who would disappear for days. Every once in awhile I would catch a glimpse of the person who lay underneath the fog; when she would call me by my old nickname, greet houseless people on the street like they were old acquaintances, or cook us jasmine rice.

In March of 2015, my parents received a call. It wasn't anything new, this happened all the time. My dad went to pick up Alison from wherever she was, I stopped asking long ago. They stopped at home to pick up my mom, and were planning to take her somewhere where she could get help. When they stopped at home, I ran outside. I ran down the steps and I ran over the sidewalk and I ran to the car and I wrapped my sister in my arms, and pulled her close. She felt different. She felt weak. I could feel her skin and bones. Then my sister did something she had never done before, she let go first, she told me to stop. My sister Alison did something I had been doing for years; she pushed me away.

On May 3rd 2015, my sister Erica and I had to stop playing tennis early due to some approaching storm clouds. As we pulled into the neighborhood, our eyes caught glimpse of a police car in our driveway. This didn't surprise me, I assumed something was going on with Alison. Typical. Erica told me to stay in the car and she went inside. I waited a few minutes, but not one who likes to wait, I went inside. The sky was darkening now, an ominous rumble in the background played as my sneakers hit the ground. Smelling the dinner my mother had been cooking, I patted my dog on his head, and I looked up. My mom, dad, and sister, along with two men in police uniforms I had never seen, were sitting at my table. As I entered, they all glanced up. The sky continued to tremble. My mom looked up and told me what had happened. Why these strange men were here. Why I was told to wait in the car. Why my mom was looking at me with tears in her eyes. My sister had taken her own life that morning. In that moment, the clouds let loose all the pressure they had been holding back, the sky seemed to quiver, and all that water poured down from the heavens. I cannot recall what I did next. I seem to remember being hugged by my sobbing mother. I left the table and went down to my room. I sat on my bed. I watched to rain fall down. Those next few days are a blur of plans, relatives, and hot dish dropped off on the porch. My best friend coming over and holding me. The service. Reading Revelation 21:4. Hugs. The sun on my skin as I stepped out of the church. Laughter. Relatives. “I’m sorry”. “She was so loved.” “She’s in a better place.” The numbness. The numbness. All I can remember is the numbness.

A numbness that seems to hang above me to this day, that I don't believe I will ever overcome.

I still have that pashmina. Towards the end of May 2015, I was doing some spring cleaning. I finally reached the shelf in my closet that was packed with memorabilia from my Europe trip. As I reached up, my fingers touched something soft. I pulled it down. It was the pashmina. The orange pashmina I had bought for my sister, who would never wear it. I wear it often, especially when visiting Minneapolis, the place my sister loved most, the place she felt at home.

After that day in May, my trips to the city were different. Every corner street reminda me of her, every coffee shop seems to be one she had spoken of, and every once in awhile I swear that I see her in one of the faces of passersby. I greet strangers as if I’ve known them for years; “Hello. Beautiful Sunday. How are you today?” I visit Alison’s old places: the tea bar that serves the best bubble tea, her old apartment building, the streets she used to roam. I try new things, I challenge myself to be uncomfortable, I grow as a person. I strive to be a sister that Alison would be proud of, but I know she would be proud of me no matter what, because she loved unconditionally. Even when I didn’t deserve it.

I began to form a habit; every Sunday I retreat inside a warm coffee shop in Uptown to hammer out my homework, I walk to the nearest Whole Foods, buy a bouquet of flowers and a pastry, the pastry for my mother, and the flowers for my sister. Cranking my windows down, I turn up some Atmosphere, one of her favorite local artists, and take the exit for 106th street. A left, another left, a slow stop, and I turn my car off. I walk over to where my sister's headstone will be, I sit, and I talk. The first few times I went, I laid down and cried and apologized in between sobs. After those first few times, I told myself I could stop apologizing, that Alison forgave me, that she understood. I apologize every time I go. I apologize for the dirty looks, the ignored texts, and the shrugging off of hugs. I apologize for the rude comments, the empty stares, the lying. I place my flowers there, and I walk away, whispering to her that I love her. (2025: I still apologize every time I go, I don’t think I will ever stop apologizing - and to be honest, I don’t think I should.)

There is an Atmosphere song in which he sings about his father, who he had a tumultuous relationship with, passing away. In one particular line, he states that “Leaving me was the best thing you ever taught me.” Alison leaving me was painful, it was awful, it was hell. However, to this day I question whether anything would have changed, if I would have changed. The answer terrifies me, because I know I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have become the young girl who takes chances, the girl who wakes up early to live a little more that day, the girl who is kind to everyone, because she is aware of all that can lurk under the surface, the girl who smiles at strangers and questions the art. The girl whose sister left an imprint on her very being. Alison leaving me was the best thing she ever taught me, and I am forever indebted to her, for helping me become a person I am proud of, and that she would be too.

(2025) I read this essay every year on the anniversary of her death and on her birthday, June 17th. It never gets easier. This year marks 10 years since that terrible, awful day and I can still hear the ringing in my ears.

I was right, that numbness hasn’t left me - I struggle constantly to feel, because there a space in my hear that is closed forever (this may come as a surprise because anyone who knows me knows I am a highly emotional person). I guess maybe that’s why I’m so out there - I try to be open, I try to be honest, I try to be kind. I’m not always, that’s for sure, but I try, because life is too short and people try to perform and if all you’re doing is performing - what’s the point of it at all, really? I think she understood that from the beginning, and that’s why the world was hard on her. The world is most cruel to tender-hearted, open people.

Since I wrote this essay in 2015, my frame of reference (as is given) as shifted. I have felt (what I can imagine) some of the things she felt - I have seen substance abuse consume more people I love, I have fallen into deep depressions where I don’t want to be here. When she died, I was 16. I was a child. I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about or who I was or who I wanted to be. Oh, cruel time. I like to think she’s watching me now, watching me figure it all out over and over and over again - and that we’d be friends today, if everything was different.