Change
Family StrategyIt’s been a month, maybe more, since I last spoke to my parents. I know they sense the silence, the way I’ve pulled back into myself. They’ve tried to reach out, their words floating like loose threads in the dark, but I can’t bring myself to grasp them. I think they know something is wrong, but I’m not sure they’d understand even if I tried to explain it. After what happened in September—which I won’t recount, because honestly, it was traumatic as fuck—they’d just justify it all anyway. That’s the thing with family. When you think it should be tender and safe, family can twist into something else entirely, something as unsettling as the absence of air.
There’s an expectation, a story we’re all told: family is the place you turn to when the world becomes a storm. Yet, somehow, mine has been the storm itself. Chaos, disorder, manipulation—I suppose I could throw a dozen more words into the mix, but what would be the point? They’d still fall short. And the strangest part? They keep coming to me for help, as though I have some unspoken duty to be their anchor while they drag me down into their own darkness.
I wonder how I turned out this way. How is it that I’ve managed to survive and build myself up with the fractured pieces they handed me? I used to think, in some childhood naivety, that I was destined for an answer, some grand revelation that would explain all of this. I remember being eight years old, standing by the lake, and asking God, Why me? I thought God would answer one day, maybe send down a sign or whisper something in the stillness. Now, years later, I find myself not believing in God anymore, and not because there was a loss, but because there was just… silence. The absence of response became the answer itself. Am I supposed to wait until the end of my life for an answer? If it takes that long, would it even matter?
Today, I sat alone with my thoughts, which I’m particularly good at, but something was different. An anxiousness I couldn’t shake settled in, a kind I haven’t felt in ages. I tried to name it, to pull it out of my chest and examine it under a light, like holding up a stone to see the veins and cracks inside. What is this feeling? What am I scared of? I wanted to run toward it, to confront it, but the closer I tried to get, the more it seemed to slip away, just beyond my reach.
I’ve changed so much over this past year, in ways that I like, that I’m proud of. Yet I can’t help but wonder, if I’ve grown, why can’t they? Why can’t family be fucking normal—safe, peaceful, the way I once believed it could be? Why does it feel like they’re the ones holding me back, when all I want is to step forward?
Maybe this is what happens when you outgrow the stories you were told as a child. When you realize that family can’t always be the thing that saves you. Maybe I have to save myself from them, and in doing so, try to make sense of the parts of me that I’m still learning to love. *
9:59pm October 16th, 2024
*My birthday passed a bit ago. I had a good one, better than expected this year. I saw more friends than I intended and have been more social than I expected. For the first time in years, they sent me a card. I imagine they’d want me to believe it was a thoughtful gesture, a sign of love or even remorse. They keep texting, calling, and casting these lines out into the void, hoping I’ll bite, that I’ll reel myself back into their orbit. But I know this is strategic.
I sit here, feeling the weight of that card, knowing that I’ve changed, and that no paper and ink can pull me back to who I used to be.
There’s an expectation, a story we’re all told: family is the place you turn to when the world becomes a storm. Yet, somehow, mine has been the storm itself. Chaos, disorder, manipulation—I suppose I could throw a dozen more words into the mix, but what would be the point? They’d still fall short. And the strangest part? They keep coming to me for help, as though I have some unspoken duty to be their anchor while they drag me down into their own darkness.
I wonder how I turned out this way. How is it that I’ve managed to survive and build myself up with the fractured pieces they handed me? I used to think, in some childhood naivety, that I was destined for an answer, some grand revelation that would explain all of this. I remember being eight years old, standing by the lake, and asking God, Why me? I thought God would answer one day, maybe send down a sign or whisper something in the stillness. Now, years later, I find myself not believing in God anymore, and not because there was a loss, but because there was just… silence. The absence of response became the answer itself. Am I supposed to wait until the end of my life for an answer? If it takes that long, would it even matter?
Today, I sat alone with my thoughts, which I’m particularly good at, but something was different. An anxiousness I couldn’t shake settled in, a kind I haven’t felt in ages. I tried to name it, to pull it out of my chest and examine it under a light, like holding up a stone to see the veins and cracks inside. What is this feeling? What am I scared of? I wanted to run toward it, to confront it, but the closer I tried to get, the more it seemed to slip away, just beyond my reach.
I’ve changed so much over this past year, in ways that I like, that I’m proud of. Yet I can’t help but wonder, if I’ve grown, why can’t they? Why can’t family be fucking normal—safe, peaceful, the way I once believed it could be? Why does it feel like they’re the ones holding me back, when all I want is to step forward?
Maybe this is what happens when you outgrow the stories you were told as a child. When you realize that family can’t always be the thing that saves you. Maybe I have to save myself from them, and in doing so, try to make sense of the parts of me that I’m still learning to love. *
9:59pm October 16th, 2024
*My birthday passed a bit ago. I had a good one, better than expected this year. I saw more friends than I intended and have been more social than I expected. For the first time in years, they sent me a card. I imagine they’d want me to believe it was a thoughtful gesture, a sign of love or even remorse. They keep texting, calling, and casting these lines out into the void, hoping I’ll bite, that I’ll reel myself back into their orbit. But I know this is strategic.
I sit here, feeling the weight of that card, knowing that I’ve changed, and that no paper and ink can pull me back to who I used to be.