Reflection Essay for English

Okay so I kinda lied and took the viewpoint of a sibling because I didn't want to be so blunt to my professor about my personal problems. It was just a good topic.

“She needs treatment,” my mother said from the kitchen. It was midnight. I was curled up in my favorite place to sit, the corner couch, trying to finish a paper. I don't think my parents ever realized when I was in the room listening to their conversation. I was surprised they were actually talking about getting my sister the help she needed.
It's not to say that my parents were bad at taking care of us. My mother loved every one of her sixteen children. She showed it openly in the way she managed us, packing lunch, making dinner, tucking us into bed through the years, reading stories. My father was more subtle in his affection. He was quiet, always busy with work, and he rarely spoke to us. I realized that he truly loved me when one night I left the house without a word. Upon returning some hours later, I found him crying with worry. It hurt to see him like that, and I haven't done it since.
No, my parents loved us, and they surely had good intentions. Unfortunately, sixteen kids is a heavy burden to manage, and I don't believe anyone can carry it without stumbling. Because of the sheer amount of children, my parents had trouble paying attention to us and giving us the individual time we needed to feel that we mattered. I can say this personally, and I can say this secondhand.
It was a chilly night in November when we discovered my sister's illness. It should have been two years before, but no one noticed the quiet sufferer she was. It saddens me to know that I realized all of the signs after the fact. For the sake of her, I will call her Ophelia.
Ophelia was tall. She had blond curls that stretched to the small of her back, and large green eyes shaded by dark lashes. She liked to talk, and was known for her extremely humorous side. Everyone in my house was a fan of her outrageous and inappropriate jokes. For one year we went to high school together, and I sincerely recall how the boys watched her come and go. She had the aura of a princess. My sister was the pursued in our small school, and I could tell she she loved it.
Things were different at home. No one noticed her come and go. I shared a room with her. Everyday she came home from school and set her books in a neat stack on the floor. They would be ignored for at least another two hours. Ophelia never cared to worry about school when she had to run. Running was her drug when things got stressful, or so I had thought. She would return an hour or so later and disappear until dinner.
Our dinner table was nothing of a quiet affair. It sounded like a thanksgiving dinner when the loud, irritating, extended family was invited. We had two long tables pushed together, two benches against the wall, and unmatched chairs along every other edge. There was barely enough room to walk. My mother would serve the plates. The younger kids fooled around and argued, and the elder engaged in drawing conversation of politics, such as the pros and cons of the health care bill. To top it off, there was always a baby crying and a dog barking. My sister was involved in all of this of course. She strongly believed in libertarianism if I remember correctly.
No one noticed when she disappeared after the cleanup. And no one noticed when they didn't see her for the rest of the night.
Ophelia began to quiet at home. She was easily stressed. I can say this confidently because I was not a clean roommate. I let my laundry fall behind and left wrappers and crumpled papers everywhere. I never made my bed or took out the trash. My sister would walk in from her shower and begin to pull on her face. I learned this was her sign of stress, or that something was wrong. She would put her hands to her cheeks as if to say, “oh no!”, and then pull. Her fingers left traces of red, and if things were very bad, scratches.
“Molly,” she would say, “this room is unacceptable. I am trying to be calm. Believe me, I am trying. Please, please take care of your shit. I can't take it! I have so much work. I can't.. I can't..” She would trail off and pull on her face some more.
That spring, Ophelia began track. She would come home at six o'clock, and have dinner, which she ate in unscrupulous amounts. Then she disappeared. Though she loved it, track added to her stress level. She barely talked to me or anyone else in the house, and still, my parents, my family, persisted in not taking notice. Sometimes I would walk into our room and find her crying for no particular reason. She would apologize and continue to cry. Things continued to digress throughout the summer. The colorful Ophelia was gone. She faded into someone else, like a painted house among wind and rain. She had dark circles under her eyes, lost weight, and cut she herself. My sister broke up with her boyfriend and found another guy. She was home less frequently and when she was, Ophelia closed herself off in our room.
I started my ninth grade year when she was a senior. She ran cross country that year, and for a while it appeared that her life had gone back to normal. She still attended dinner and disappeared, but Ophelia began to laugh again. She smiled and talked to me, and the messy room became less of a problem. It didn't last long. By the time we were halfway though the month of October, she had a relapse. The old girl was back. Stressed, angry, tired, depressed, and gone all the time.
November. It was snowing outside, and the angry, cold wind blew in across the yard. Cross country was over. Ophelia ended her season with a sprained ankle and an asthma attack. Dinner that night was roast beef, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. I decided I would slip away from the table early to avoid clean up. I was tired, cold, and there was food on the floor in which I would have to clean up. I abhorred sweeping.
The hallway was dark. The only light I could see was a thin strip under the bathroom door.
“Where's Molly,” I heard from the kitchen, “she's supposed to sweep tonight.” I quickened my step and unthinkingly reached for the door handle. And there I saw Ophelia.
I slammed the door, and sort of numbness fell over me as though I had just been punched in the stomach. Everything suddenly made so much sense to me, it was sickening. It made sense, her stress, her thinness, her depression. It made sense, the way she disappeared, and folded her arms to hide herself from the world. The way she cried.
No one had seen. They were too busy to see her come out the bathroom wiping her mouth on her sleeve, clearing her throat. My mother didn't see the large amounts she had for supper, and my father didn't notice how she compulsively ran. We didn't notice how much she put herself down. Ophelia busied herself so she could hide from the problem, from the world. She cried because she felt hopeless. She cried because we didn't see her slowly killing herself. She couldn't stop, and not one of us, for two and a half years, helped take the dagger out of her hand.
“..she's going to be fine, Della.” I came back through and glanced at the clock. Twelve thirty. My parents were still talking in the kitchen. My mother grabbed hold of another pan and began to scrub it.
“We don't know that. All I want is for her to make it through college. I tried to get her to make phone calls but she says she's too busy.”
“Why don't you make them,” my dad asked, leaning against the counter. He gasped and stepped away with a wet shirt.
“Why don't you?”
I left the room. I didn't know if my parents would ever come to a conclusion on who was going to make the damn phone call.
Ophelia was awake when I closed the door behind myself and crawled into bed. I told her of their conversation. She began to cry. My sister wiped at her face furiously.
“I'm sorry. It's so stupid. I'm so stupid. I'm tearing the family apart. It was okay until you found out. I don't blame you.. it's just that everything's worse. Even Austin broke up with me. He said he couldn't handle my mood swings. Do you believe that? I ruined everything,” she sobbed.
I did my best to reassure her that all she said was untrue. I even ventured to tell her not to flatter herself. She mattered, but her crisis was manageable and curable. She wasn't enough to ruin the family. I told her I would listen. She wasn't alone. I would be there every step of the way, because even I had problems that no one saw, and no one noticed. Perhaps they never will.