There is another me I talk to sometimes. Another version of who I am.
I speak to her a lot when things are at their worst and there is no-one else for whom the words would come out.
She listens. She tells me what I already know but can’t believe; that things are not so bad. Then she makes me laugh, out loud, with a story of something silly she did just the other day. I can see her doing it as she describes it and I remember why I love my sister so much. Myself, but better, stronger, and not so serious. And I remember another version of who I am. A happier self, because of my sister.