I lost my younger sister to a heroin overdose. We grew up in a middle-class neighborhood of Woodbridge, the fifth largest municipality in New Jersey. The town is a busy one, close to all means 
 
of major transportation, shopping malls and the Jersey shore, but it is neither a high crime town nor one known for excessive drug use.

My sister, Kyndall, was the sixth child of 11 children. I am the oldest. The bond that we shared was like a mother and daughter when she was younger. Because my mother had so many young ones to care for, Kyndall became like my own. As a child, she was so good and quiet but she was also very sensitive. If she got yelled at, she would act as if you struck her with a sword. She also tended to hold in her feelings, so you were never really sure what she was thinking or feeling. I knew, though, that she needed some extra care. I tried my best to give her that.

Kyndall had a wonderful artistic talent, which was recognized at an early age. Although she did not express herself much by talking, her beauty and personality was evident in her artwork. But it wasn’t just her artwork that made her special. Each year at school, she would 
 
have at least one teacher who became attached to Kyndall and would go out of their way for her. It was like she had some magical charisma that people would draw into. She carried that special trait with her throughout her life.

When Kyndall was around the age of 13, our mother left the house and our father was given custody of us. Our mother visited but then eventually never came back. Kyndall felt abandoned. Our father was there but they did not get along. At the age of 14, she moved into her friend Amber’s house. Amber’s parents supported the idea of her living there and treated her like their own daughter.

At that time, Kyndall was smoking pot just like a lot of the other kids her age. She once commented, “It‘s only pot -- not a big deal, it’s all natural.” When she was 15, she started hanging around with a boy who was a “good friend” of hers. This “good friend” recommended a better, mellower high than pot. This is when she met heroin.

Kyndall was a private person. She rarely disclosed her feelings and she hid her heroin usage well. Although her grades were declining, she managed to make her way through high school. She was even awarded a first place prize of $1,000 in the National Asthma Poster contest.

However, some of our brothers and sisters knew something was wrong. Money would disappear when she came over to visit. She started complaining of headaches and she slept a lot. When we heard she got a full scholarship to the University of Arts in Philadelphia, we thought that was the best possible thing for her. We figured whatever problems she was having would be all better once she went away to school. WRONG.

Kyndall was expelled from school only a couple months after she started. They found a syringe in her dorm room, but she denied everything to us saying it was someone else’s and she got the blame for it. We thought she would come back home to Woodbridge, but she stayed in Philly. That is where she spent most of her addicted life.

From what I knew, she lived with an abusive, heroin-addicted boyfriend, and then she lived in the streets.