It's been four months since Elizabeth died.

I keep thinking I'll write about her, but every time I try, something stays my hand. My thoughts pause; my fingers tap restlessly at the keyboard; I hear my father's voice saying, "This just isn't anyone else's business." I'm filled with shame at the betrayal I nearly committed, and I stop writing. Over and over and over.

Liz was always private family business. We invented cover stories to explain her absence at family gatherings; I was briefed beforehand so our stories would match. As she grew into adulthood, more and more of our extended family knew the truth, and it became easier to lie to everyone else. I'm not accustomed to talking about Liz.

And to be fair, my parents didn't ask me to keep a web journal. They have no control over what I write here beyond my loyalty and discretion. I'm trying to find the line between my right to talk about Liz and my parents' right to privacy. The story of my sister's life isn't just about my sister, after all. It's about all of us. And there is nothing more important than family.

So, like a child learning to swim, I'm venturing into the water slowly. It's been hard just to get this far without deleting everything.

Liz was my only sibling, older by four years. She was a blue-eyed redhead with a slim build and a splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had a healthy, all-American look, and for a brief time, she was the smiling kid on the front of the Kodak envelopes in which developed pictures were returned to customers.

Liz loved gymnastics and spent as much time as she could at the gym. She was a perfectionist, a straight-A student who kept her room neat and cleared the table without being asked. I was a force of chaos, a raging storm of undiagnosed ADD, so I really didn't notice that she started to have problems when she was fifteen and I was eleven. I still don't know what the problems were. But everything was about to change.

One evening when I was twelve and Liz sixteen, she stopped into the den on the second floor, where I was watching television. She said she was tired and going to sleep, and gave me a hug. I said goodnight, then turned my attention back to the television. But she stood in the doorway for a minute longer, looking at me; I could feel her gaze. Then she mumbled another goodnight and headed to her bedroom on the third floor.

I woke the next morning to screaming from the third floor. Liz hadn't woken when her alarm had gone off, and when my mother had gone to check on her, she was unconscious. She had taken every prescription drug in the house, several hundred in all, in five-minute intervals to ward off reflexive vomiting. Nine hours had passed.

I found out later that she hadn't said goodnight. She'd said goodbye.

Liz spent a week in a coma. I spent the week sitting on the sofa and listening to the Grateful Dead's "Brokedown Palace" on repeat. I have absolutely no recollection of my parents during that time.

That's how it started. Anorexia nervosa and borderline personality disorder. Psychosis and delusional paranoia came later. From that time on, family meant hospital after hospital, holidays in locked wards, takeout food eaten with plastic utensils, more suicide attempts, and family briefings to keep our stories straight.

Liz has the flu. Liz is in boarding school. Liz is cramming for exams. Liz is working this weekend. Liz is so sorry; of course she would have loved to see you.

In fact, she was in hospitals, taking old medications and being subjected to treatments so archaic I've had to explain them to my own shrink. And over the years, she got worse and worse.

But this is just a glimpse of the complicated story of my bright and beautiful sister. It's been very hard to write this. I hope I don't regret it tomorrow.

I can't believe it's been four months.

Please don't be angry with me for telling your story, Lizie. Come and talk to me in my dreams. I have so much to tell you.