My sister Beth and I never really got along. As kids, she liked Barbies, I liked sports. She was a “goody-goody” (my label for her); I broke every rule I came across.

As teenagers and young adults, our divide became even wider. Beth excelled academically, did well in college and graduate school, met a great guy, and started a successful career.

I became an unemployable alcoholic and drug addict, spent most of my time on bar stools, committed welfare and credit card fraud to manage a roof over my head, and started making the rounds of psych wards by the time I was 22.

For many years, my parents dreaded the late-night phone calls that informed them I was in another psychiatric hospital, had tried to commit suicide, or was stranded somewhere (Yugoslavia, Colorado, Dallas), and needed money to get home.

I resented Beth for how smoothly her life was going. For her success. For her seemingly easy happiness.

She resented me for all the attention I got. Yes, it was negative attention. But my parents didn’t have time to revel in Beth’s accomplishments; they were too busy worrying about me, bailing me out, rescuing me from another crisis situation.

It wasn’t Beth’s fault. She was just living her life. And it wasn’t really my fault, either. I was sick, very sick, with addiction and treatment-resistant Bipolar I Disorder. But our conflict made for testy holiday dinners.

The latest disaster had been my attempt to move to rural New Mexico, thinking the desert air and country living would solve my problems.

But after a few months in the Land of Enchantment, I stopped taking my psychiatric medication (which wasn’t really working, anyway). I thought it was making me gain weight, and lose my hair. I got in a relationship with a manipulative sex addict, and wound up hallucinating dead cows hanging from telephone poles on a deserted highway when I tried to escape from him.

When my family rescued me (again) and I landed back in my old bedroom, I collapsed, and hibernated for several weeks, refusing to resume taking my medication.

As I had done so many times before, I marinated in my own filth, staring at a watermark on the ceiling, watching late-night informercials on my little black and white TV with the coat hanger sticking out of it. I showered infrequently, and left my room only to eat leftovers with my bare hands by the light of the open refrigerator while my parents slept.

One morning, my mother came into my room, to try (again) to coax me downstairs, and found me catatonic, sitting on the side of the bed. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move.

“Please,” she begged. “Please take your medication.”

I slowly opened my mouth, she put the pill on my tongue, and I swallowed it.

In the meantime, preparations were underway for Beth’s fabulous wedding! She had found a beautiful, tasteful gown, and the event was sure to be classy and romantic.

After a few weeks back on the Zyprexa, I was seeing my waistline expand again. I did see more hairs going down the drain in the shower.

But at least I was able to take a shower. At least I was able to get out of bed, go downstairs, and have regular meals with my parents.

The morning of the wedding, I pulled on the only dress that still fit me after all the Zyprexa weight gain, brushed my thinning hair, and managed to put deodorant on.

I sat uncomfortably in a pew watching my younger sister glide effortlessly down the aisle, hold hands with her dream man, and become his wife.

Beth’s man vowed to love and care for her for life, while my New Mexico boyfriend had given me chlamydia.

A lot of people were teary-eyed. Including me. But I wasn’t crying for Beth; I was crying for myself. I knew this wonderful life of hers would never happen for me.

At the reception, while Beth and Steve had their first dance and received hugs, well wishes, and envelopes with money, I stuffed my face and went outside for frequent cigarette breaks.

“What’s new with you?” family friends and distant relatives kept asking me.

I made up lies about jobs I didn’t have, boyfriends who didn’t exist, “transitions” I claimed to be in. With Uncle Gene, I was going back to graduate school. With Mr. Pryor, I was starting a job as a middle school teacher in the fall. With Mrs. Carson, I was engaged to a doctor.

Until an old family friend sidled up next to me with a big grin and asked the same question so many had asked before. Only this time, I decided I couldn’t lie anymore.

“I’m just waiting to see if the anti-psychotic medication will kick in,” I said to Mr. Bridgerton, and I walked away, leaving him with a frozen fake smile.

The DJ started playing “Staying Alive,” and I laughed out loud, probably looking strange, as there was no one else near me who could have told me a joke.

It was the first time I had laughed, in as long as I could remember.

Beth and I have become friends now. Her life turned out to be not so perfect, and mine turned out to be not so bad. I’ve been sober for 19 years, I’ve found the right doctor and medication for my Bipolar Disorder, I’ve married my own great guy, and I have a job that feeds my soul.

I have a great relationship with Beth’s kids. They don’t remember their Aunt Ali as an active drug addict and psych patient.

These days, I cherish my relationship with my little sister.

But to this day, whenever I hear the BeeGees singing “Staying Alive,” I find myself smiling.