Writing “Anne”



I wrote a story last February that I edited several times the previous six months titled Anne, which I posted here yesterday.  I was overcome with emotion by the reaction it has gotten from people. Mostly from individuals that are addicts or lost someone to addiction. The comments on the story have moved me to tears.  I thought I was writing the story for myself, but in reality, writing it for all of you. 


The story is about a young woman that picks up her older sister after spending the last few years apart due to her sister’s addiction issues.  Our story begins uneventfully at first until Anne needs to escape to the public restroom. From there, things go awry, and we learn that Anne may not be who we thought she was in the beginning.  

 “Anne” is a horror story told from the perspective of someone that loves another human being suffering from drug addiction. 


I have not spoken to much publically, but my older sister has struggled with addiction close to 15 years now.  It isn’t pleasant watching someone that used to be so vibrant and have so much life ahead of them turn into something reminiscent of a Zombie in a horror movie. 


There were often Arguments that had no beginning or end.  Every word said becomes part of that madness, and you feel like you have stepped into another place in time and space because this cannot be your reality.  This person, this “addict monster” cannot be your loved one. 


I can recall nights where she would wander off into the street, and someone would have to go out in the middle of the night and fetch her.  She would often take sleeping medications prescribed by so-called doctors that did not care if she was okay or not.   


Things did get better for a year or so, and she even moved out of my mother’s home and got a nice place of her own, but then they went back to being chaotic again.  


I hope I never know what it is like to feel so addicted to something that my life ceases to exist in the real world.  I’m not judging her anymore, although I had many moments of anger when I did with lack of empathy.    


Writing “Anne” was a cathartic way to say I understand, and I’m sorry.  





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