Cannot keep swimming

What I Won’t Miss

This is a record of a day when I am beyond tired—tired in body, in mind, and in spirit.  And  if, someday, someone I love finds their way to these words, I hope they may offer me some grace. Compassion.

Many days, I find myself fantasizing about not being here. And when I imagine being gone, I realize—there’s not much I would miss.

The world I live in doesn’t resemble anything I would choose. My family would insist it’s the exact result of my choices and reflection of my lovability and unworthiness.

I won’t miss vacations with my children or with friends—because those didn’t happen. I won’t miss meals out with them, or nights out with a partner. I won’t miss shared chores, shared meals, or figuring things out as a team. I won’t miss fun snacks and treats and meals from our favorite take out.  I wont miss shopping sprees or spending casually or splurging.  Those aren’t things I’ll miss, because they never got to be mine.

I won’t miss waiting on surgery approvals that may or may not come, for relief that may or may not arrive. I won’t miss medical appointments as the only planned interactions in my week.

I won’t miss sitting in my recliner, passing hours until work or bedtime because those are the only guarantees in my day. I won’t miss cleaning up, making food, cleaning up again—only to do it all tomorrow. I won’t miss the tension in my home, the arguments, the unending hope for peace in a family (my sons and me) under siege, with my ex-husband and sister having worked in quiet, calculated ways years ago to lauch the erosion of my ability to live freely and love my children without fear of interference. I won’t miss the judgment by all who do.

There’s very little I would miss.

I’m sad for my older dog—gentle, loyal—who won’t understand my absence and may miss out on the love he deserves in his final stretch. And for my other dog, who is anxious and misunderstood, and might be punished for needing too much.

I won’t miss the absence of companionship. I won’t miss having no one expecting me, counting on me, or making space for me. I won’t miss being limited in every way—financially, emotionally, physically, mentally.

I won’t miss wishing my yard were pretty. I won’t miss eating only toast and apples as foods I can afford and tolerate. I won’t miss dragging myself through days, hoping for less pain and more connection. I won’t miss becoming less able to care for myself, knowing no one is waiting in the wings. There is no rescue.

I won’t miss the lost ability to read for pleasure. I won’t miss trying to watch shows about family or love or connection—because they remind me of what I don’t have. I won’t miss going to therapy and being met with shallow solutions to deep wounds.

And here’s what I need to say—maybe the most important truth beneath everything else:

I love my children with everything I had, even when I had nothing left.

I was in survival mode from the start— as their father dedicated himself to providing only constant emotional and financial instability. His unpredictability, the withheld support, the psychological games, the control and antagonism—left me bracing for impact every single day.

Joy was hard to access. Peace was hard to keep. And still, I gave. I gave all that I had. If I did not provide or offer something, it wasn’t because I didn’t care or withheld—it was because I didn’t have the means.

Sometimes I think my sons view generosity as something that comes from abundance. But what I want them to acknowledge is that generosity is giving when it means sacrifice. I gave everything I could, every single day.

I ache for the future that was stolen from me and my children. But I won’t miss it. Missing requires presence, and I imagine peace as a place where pain no longer echoes.

I won’t miss doctors who seem burdened by my unresolvable pain, and my unmasked anguish. I won’t miss battling customer service and billing errors until I’m drained and overwhelmed. I won’t miss the fear of what I’ll lose next. I won’t miss beautiful days wasted by isolation. I won’t miss surviving instead of living. I won’t miss the medications that keep me going but do not make me well. I won’t miss calculating every cost, every hour, every need—knowing I cannot meet any of it.

I will not miss the idea of more years like this.

I won’t miss sleeping in a recliner because the bed hurts too much. I won’t miss the shame that whispers I deserved every bad thing that’s happened. I won’t miss not being able to find clothes that fit, that I can afford, that make me feel even remotely okay. I won’t miss the truth that I’ve never worn an outfit that made me feel beautiful.

I won’t miss the neighbor who parks antagonistically in front of my house for months to make a point.

I won’t miss the man who was both the best and worst thing that ever happened to me.

I won’t miss the pain of having an older sister who molested and terrorized me—and then worked like a master, campaigning, relentlessly and insidiously, to discredit and invalidate me. Ensuring that sure everyone attributed my behavior and mental health to my badness—and not the result of abuse, confusion and in panic. I’ll never understand how that strategy worked out so well.

And finally:

Having not been raised in love, or with love, or even around love—it’s a miracle that I managed to do something as great as love my sons fiercely and fully. That I didn’t abuse them, abandon them, or diminish them. That I stayed transparent—always for them, never against them. That I never played a part in any plan that would harm them or divide them from each other. And yet, it was essential—for my sister and their father—to righteously compromise that, erasing and degrading me at every turn.

I am erased. It’s tragic that they can’t concern themselves with the damage done to my children’s spirits—to have a mom who couldn’t climb out of despair before more was heaped on. A mom who was degraded, diminished, and declined into someone they couldn’t feel good about knowing, loving, or relating to. At least I have this space to exist—unsilenced, unbridled—and know that my boys may one day read and remember the truth of my words and my intentions.

May 5 – On the Beach


Rambling thoughts as I chase some clarity and peace with psilocybin microdosing:

The only last name that ever truly felt like mine was the one I chose—Mills—on September 12, 2011.
I’ve always felt connected to the people I was born to only by genetics, not by a deeper sense of belonging.
The name I took when I married connects me to someone I no longer share a life with—but it’s also the name I share with my sons.
So, there’s that.

I value both strength and gentleness—together, when balanced, they look like courage. But some people use force and aggression, active or passive, and call it strength.

Ralph wasn’t who he said he was. He never told me he was strong or gentle, but I saw both in everything he did, and I loved it. I miss it. He is by far the most lovable, forgivable person I’ve known. I know he caused harm. I don’t think he meant to, and I think he was unwell and didn’t know how to stop. Some would say he enjoyed it, but I can’t find a place in my heart or mind that believes that’s true. It doesn’t lessen the damage, but I’m still not angry at him.

Some people think I’m weak because I suffer. They expect me to fight, to push back with aggression. But in recovery, what looks like giving up is called surrender.

I’m seeing people move with ease, not panicked about a bottle of water or sunblock. They look at each other, communicate without fear of being punished or ignored for simply existing or expressing themselves differently.

I’m sad for a vacation I never had—one where I felt completely relaxed about money and the people I was with.

Watching others relax, play, eat, swim, and talk together—really together—makes me ache. I didn’t get that. And it feels like proof that I’m incapable. I don’t believe that’s true, but I believe that others believe it.

I’m here at the beach—my favorite place on earth—and I can’t get comfortable. It humiliates me. I’m reminded that I am joyless. It’s always been called a lack of gratitude, but I don’t have the internal architecture to hold joy. I don’t think such a structure can stand on a foundation of panic and shame.

Rapid weight loss has left me unable to exercise, and my bathing suit is sagging, gaping—just more evidence. I’m lying on the beach and can’t find a comfortable position. It feels like a cruel confirmation: if you can’t even be comfortable here, now, it must be because you’re broken.

The architecture for joy never got off the ground. I was always afraid, panicked, ashamed. Today I want to go into the ocean, but I can’t trust my body. Trails hurt. A root, a divot—anything can destabilize me. Pain and panic follow. So how can I trust a wave? The ocean used to bring laughter, not fear. I used to just get back up. But now, I don’t know that I would. It hurts. It’s scary. I’ve never felt fear in the ocean—until now.

I see a mother and a little girl stand to go to the water. The mother gathers all the things—bucket, shovel, toys—in one hand, and with the other, she holds her daughter’s hand. She carries it all, including her. I think I showed up as a mother in this way. But I never had anyone show up for me like that.

Text on a blue background reads: “Narcissistic parents make it nearly impossible for family members to maintain a relationship with their scapegoat child. They use every form of manipulation to ensure this child is shunned and ostracized from the family.”

It Has Broken Me

The Cycle Wins~

It has been deeply painful to not only have been judged from my earliest days, for my senstivity, my overwhelm, my limits, and that my existence has been regarded as a thing to be extinguished— invalidated, diminished, dehumanized. As if my very being has been designated as problematic and punishable.

In the eyes of my sons, they’ve made it clear: my struggle is self-imposed — the result of nothing but my own poor choices, as they see it.

I grieve that loss of grace, mercy, and human kindness from my boys, especially when it feels as if they learned their detachment -through indoctrination or proximity— not necessarily consciously, but absorbed it somehow, like secondhand smoke. This, this shift is not a thing I caused, it is the cycle which has been imposed, the indoctrination on both sides which has left siblings estranged and parents going to the grave with no contact from one of their children. My boys were each once incredibly loving, empathetic and kind with me, and they now behave as if it that to be a man andor a winner- is to be an unrelenting, never wrong (weak) asshole. This is the cursed cycle I had hoped to break or even survive. My failure at both is undeniable.

I know of no other way to protect myself from ever again choosing and experiencing — one more person who loves me the way that my mother did, and the way she taught her family to.

Abandoned umbrella on the ground in a storm, symbolizing isolation and unmanaged pain

The Pain from the Pain

Today, my back hurts—badly. But the pain itself is only the beginning. Almost immediately, I feel panic. That’s my second skin, my automatic response to discomfort: fear. Not just fear of the pain, but fear of what it will cost me. I’ve learned that being unwell, having needs, or showing any kind of struggle leads to consequences—judgment, abandonment, rejection. So I don’t just have the pain. I have the terror of what the pain means about me, about my safety, about my future.

I’ve been fighting for a surgery which keeps getting denied, and I have no confidence that relief is coming. Every day, I’m managing my body with medication that makes the pain bearable, and I wonder: is this my forever?

It is like a panic attack in slow motion. I’m in pain, and I’m alone with it. What I need more than anything is someone to come and sit with me, to regulate with me, to say: “We’ll get through this. I’m here. You’re not alone.” But that’s not happening. And I’m left carrying it—pain, fear, uncertainty—on my own.

Family conditioning and cycles chant, “Serves you right. You got what you deserved.”
Who the fuck thinks or says that when someone is suffering and struggling?
Oh, wait—I think I know.
No matter how much healing work I do, this part never stops hurting.
I will not get over the hatchet-like detachment from my sons, the loves of my life.

People line up for comforting lies but don't want unpleasant truths

The Matthew Effect

“For to everyone who has, more will be given, and he will have an abundance.
But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away.”

This is what’s known as the Matthew Effect.
Advantages accumulate. Disadvantages compound.

Those who start with luck, privilege, resources, or even just a stable home—tend to keep winning.
Those who start with trauma, poverty, or pain—tend to keep struggling.

And people who keep losing often internalize the idea:
“Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m bad.”

But it’s not about worth.
It’s not about who’s better or who deserves more.

It’s about starting positions—and what builds from them.

Confidence, stability, resilience, deservingness, risk tolerance, belief in your future, agency—those things grow over time, or they erode. The Matthew Effect is a law of momentum.

But momentum can be broken.
And it can be rebuilt. Though I continue trying, I find myself unable to sustain any positive momentum for long.

TRIANGULATION It’s one of the narcissist’s favorite manipulations and they use it to create chaos and then harness that chaos to control and the people in that situation.

Triangulation, Alienation, Gaslighting Children

THERAPIST: So you’re upset that your mom pointed out missed chores and unmet expectations — even after a few consistent weeks of you doing them without reminders?

SON: Yeah. I did them for weeks, then missed a few days, and it’s like she forgets everything I did.

THERAPIST: Feels like the past effort doesn’t count?

SON: Exactly. One mistake, and it’s all erased.

THERAPIST: Do you think those weeks should cancel out the fact that you didn’t follow through now?

SON: Yeah. I don’t have these issues anywhere else. At school, in sports, at work — I’m respected. She’s the only person who makes me feel like I’m always messing up.

THERAPIST: So in your mind, she’s the problem?

SON: Yes. She’s always overwhelmed, emotional, negative. She creates tension. I act out because of how she is.

THERAPIST: So when your behavior is off, it proves she’s toxic?

SON: Right. I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m not difficult anywhere else. She’s the common denominator.

THERAPIST: And once you’re 18?

SON: Then I won’t have to deal with her. I’ll be only with people who get IT.

THERAPIST: Can I ask — does this connect to how she talks about your dad?

SON: Yeah. She’s always bringing up what he did, how he hurt her. But he doesn’t act like that with me. So what is she doing — trying to make me take her side?

THERAPIST: That’s tough. When one parent talks about the other’s harm, and you don’t see it, it puts you in a hard spot. What if it’s not about taking sides — but about acknowledging what’s real for her?

SON: I don’t know.

THERAPIST: You’ve witnessed moments that harmed made her feel scared, alone. That’s not taking sides — that’s honesty.

SON (quiet): Maybe.

THERAPIST: What does your dad do to help you deal with your mom?

SON: He doesn’t really. But he listens. He agrees with me. He gets it. He doesn’t push me to fix things.

THERAPIST: Feels good to be understood.

SON: Yeah. At least someone’s on my side.

THERAPIST: I get that.

SON: So what — I’m supposed to just be perfect?

THERAPIST: No. Just honest. Kind. Accountable. Like you are in school, sports, work. Not perfect — just consistent.

THERAPIST (calm, direct): What do you think it would cost you to show up with honesty and accountability — no matter what she’s doing?

SON: I don’t know. It would feel like I’m giving in. Like I’m saying she’s right.

THERAPIST: But you noticed that when you were doing your part — following through, keeping your word — things improved at home – because you were steady and intentional.

THERAPIST: You’re not responsible for the whole relationship — but you are responsible for what you bring into it. Your choices. Your actions. The good and the bad. Are you willing to consider that?

SON (cool, final): No. I don’t think I need to “work on myself” around her. I just need to stay out of the drama and wait it out. Once I’m 18, I’ll be able to walk away. It’s uncomfortable being near her. I don’t want to associate with her. I don’t want to be like her — she’ll just drag me down.

THERAPIST (calm, firm): It’s important to recognize that when you bring that kind of energy into your mom’s space — the dismissiveness, the disrespect — you’re creating tension. And when she reacts to that, it seems like you only see her reaction as the only problem— what about the energy you bring in the first place?

THERAPIST: When you act that way, she’s not creating conflict — she’s responding to it. Her calling it out is not speaking the problem into existence. You seem heavily invested in a binary outcome- where you are right and she is wrong.

SON: Because she is. It is not worth it.

THERAPIST: Ok, so you have made your decision. How would you expect her to react to someone who has that energy for her and communicates so much disregard in all manner of ways?

When a flower does not bloom, you fix the environment in which it is planted, not the flower.

Living With Trauma and Overwhelm

Growing up highly sensitive and neurodivergent, I wasn’t seen as struggling — I was seen as willful and defiant, seeking control and attention with my needs. Survival meant submission — something I never fully understood or mastered — and it cost me dearly just to exist.

I was not taught to soothe myself.
I was not allowed to understand myself.
In fact, my attempts were discouraged — even punished.

If I had an uncomfortable or overwhelming feeling, it was regarded disobedience and disrespect.
It was regarded as a problem I was speaking into existence.

The responses were shaming, shunning, stonewalling — banishment.
And nobody explained any of it to me. The pain and confusion were devastating.

Nobody said, “Hey, here’s what’s happening. You’re safe. You’re loved. We are here with you.”

My unmasked discomfort became the reason for everything that was wrong.

And I couldn’t process it.
I couldn’t make it make sense.
I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong — and I couldn’t stop doing it — because it was just me: my body, my feelings, my reactions.

I was not taught to regulate.

Now, at 56 years old, I’m trying to learn.

Trying to learn how to stay with myself through discomfort instead of shutting down, spiraling, or abandoning myself the way I was abandoned.
Trying to navigate the panic that comes when my system gets overloaded.

Because it happens fast.
Because trauma rewired my body.
Because sensory integration issues mean I get overstimulated easily — lights, sounds, textures, crowds, too much too fast, any emotional input — and my whole system floods.

And it’s not just the discomfort — it’s the fear of the panic that compounds it.

Terrified: how much will this cost me?

It’s the fear of what happens when I get overwhelmed — because when I was little, the cost of overwhelm was love, inclusion, access.

So I was always anxious.
Anxious about being anxious.
Anxious about getting in trouble for being anxious.
Anxious about ruining everything.

I can’t tell you how many times I heard:

“Why must you ruin everything?”
“Why can’t you just be grateful?”

And I didn’t understand.

I didn’t understand that what they meant was:

  • If I were grateful, I wouldn’t burden anyone with my needs.
  • If I were considerate, I would figure it out by myself.
  • If I were a better kid, I would make it easier for them to be kind to me — by not needing anything.

But I didn’t understand that.
I didn’t understand the code.

I didn’t understand that I was feeling things more intensely than the people around me.
I didn’t understand that what overwhelmed me didn’t even register for them.

And I never could comprehend how in place of comfort, there would be alienation, invalidation, and persecution.

I was raised to believe that any pain of mine- was either imagined or well earned.
Either way, there was no comfort for pain of that sort — for a piece of shit like myself.

No support.
No nurturing.
No safety.

The scapegoats must not be considered credible by anyone else. This is the family's top priority

The Agonizing Cycle of Stonewalling 

The Cycle:

In these relationships (my mom, sister, ex-husband, Younger son), there’s a deep avoidance of vulnerability. Struggling, being hurt, needing something — these are seen as weaknesses, something shameful. “Winners” don’t have hard feelings; they stay cool, invulnerable, and superior.

So when I express a hurt feeling, a need, a boundary — I am breaking the unspoken rule:

Don’t show weakness. Don’t make it messy. Don’t need anything.

Because I have violated that rule (by being open, human, vulnerable), the other person doesn’t meet me with curiosity or care.

Instead, they reflexively defend themselves — by counter- attacking.

They respond with vague accusations like “You’re critical, selfish, unreasonable,” without providing specifics or pointing to incidents that support their claims. When asked to elaborate, they say they refuse to “rehash” the issue. It’s as if they view any attempt to visit the topic as rehashing, even though it’s just a matter of clarification. As if– “You were upset about a thing, I was upset about something, it’s even- let’s move on.”

Why?

Because real conversation would mean facing their own discomfort, their own part — and in this system, discomfort = weakness = failure.

Instead, they aim to invalidate or cancel out my feelings by saying, “Well, you’re impossible,” with an active unwillingness to engage in constructive ways to illuminate my said offense, creating an opportunity for me to reflect and amend.

“When I persist in seeking clarity and a shared resolution, I am denied and dismissed as troublemaking— I am THE problem.” Not any one act, just my being. Wrong at a cellular level.

In short:

  • I directly communicate a need or limit.
  • They respond with vague counter-accusations.
  • They refuse genuine engagement.
  • They frame my need for clarity or repair as being combative or unreasonable.
  • I’m punished/silenced/cast out/erased for needing, for feeling, for asking.

What This Dynamic Is Called:

  • Defensive emotional shutdown (also called “stonewalling”)
  • Gaslighting – “You do bad things. If you try to push for clarity- to know and consider and grow from the bad things you are accused of having done, you are the bad thing.”
  • Shame-based avoidance (they avoid their own shame of imperfection by punishing me for calling out something problematic- imperfect- messy)
  • Invalidation (my needs are framed as wrong or unreasonable)

At its core, stonewalling creates an unsafe relational system, often reinforcing roles like the golden child and scapegoat, and facilitating triangulation, where third parties are used to manipulate and control the dynamic, preventing healthy communication and mutual understanding.

Familiar Shapes

He’s always needed a woman with more.

More money, more shine, more spine.

He likes the kind with a backbone

as long as it’s used to lift him.

Strong is great,

as long as it prioritizes him,

elevates him,

makes him look like more.

The moment it stands for her,

without him at the center,

it’s a threat….time to diminish and devalue, take her down a notch

First, his sisters. Then me.

Now her.

Tall like me. Thin like me.

And with more capital.

I had MUCH before, too—before him.

After?

I was left with less than half of what I entered.

He doesn’t change. He shape shifts.

Adapting to the next host/supply

Takes. Building himself up with borrowed light.

He voted for Obama. Twice.

Because I did.

Then voted for Trump.

Because she did.

No one with a shred of integrity does both.

But he doesn’t vote from belief.

He votes from alignment—

whatever his supply believes, that’s his new truth.

What propels him.

He commits only to what serves him

what launches him forward

on someone else’s energy.

Every time.

I remember the reach. The way she presented herslef to me.

Not open. Not soft.

Something colder. Sharper.

Performance, maybe.

Like she needed to win something I wasn’t playing for.

I said I’m here if it heals.

She wasn’t.

I cant help but wonder if she feels the blur.

The vagueness.

The flickers of unease when the story shifts

but she’s too far in to say wait, that doesn’t line up.

He keeps people guessing—

when the boys will be here

when the money will come

when the tone will turn.

It’s not chaos. It’s currency.

Control always is.

He subtly insured division of me from his sisters, and then my own. It would have happened naturally, but he made sure of it.

From my mother, who rescued me heroically in financial ways- when he witheld support.

And I wonder if she’s kept apart too.

If he spins her just enough to keep her from noticing

that she’s in a pattern that didn’t start with her.

There’s always a villain – in time it will need to be her.

📚 Recommended Reading for Understanding and Healing

These books have been instrumental in helping many understand and recover from the dynamics of narcissistic relationships:

These resources are invaluable for anyone seeking to understand the complexities of narcissistic relationships and embark on a path to healing.

Abusers Mantra- That Did Not Happen

“But What Did She Do?”

Friend:

So you’re not in contact with your daughter anymore?

Family Member:

No, she’s just too much. Always some issue with her. Always making everything harder than it has to be.

Friend:

Wow. What happened exactly? Did she hurt someone? Lie? Betray you?

Family Member:

No, not really. It’s more like… she always has needs and limits and feelings that are too much and make no sense.  So sensitive.  Demanding.  Needy. Always demanding  conversation. It’s exhausting.

Friend:

That doesn’t sound like a crime. Did she ask to talk about something hard?

Family Member:

Yeah, but she turns everything into a problem. Like, she’ll say something felt hurtful, or ask someone to stop doing something—and suddenly, it’s a whole thing. She speaks problems into existence. If she’s upset, that’s the problem. Not what caused it.

Friend:

So she brings up something painful and you say she’s just trying to cause drama?

Family Member:

Exactly. We always told her: stop manufacturing chaos. If you’re hurting, you probably imagined it, earned it, or brought it on yourself.

Friend:

That sounds brutal. What happens when she does try to talk about it?

Family Member:

She gets overwhelmed. Emotional. Then she cries and it’s like, see? You can’t even talk to her. She’s unstable.

Friend:

Did you ever try family therapy?

Family Member:

Yes, once. She completely fell apart in the session. Couldn’t handle us calmly telling the therapist how hard she is. The therapist saw right through her.

Friend:

Or maybe she broke down because the room was against her and you used that as proof?

Family Member:

Whatever. She just needs everything to be her way. We can’t do that.

Friend:

So what’s the worst thing she actually did?

Family Member:

She refused to keep showing up -opted out until we had more useless conversations. She always said she’d come to the table if people would be kind. But she made herself the outsider. Ask anyone—she sucks.

Friend:

But if nobody can name what she actually did—not how she felt, or how you felt about her, but what she really did—then what was she punished for?

Family Member:

For being impossible. Creating Tension to get attention.

Friend:

Hmmm

14 Years Later

Friend:

Wait… so you don’t talk to your mom anymore?

Son:

Nah. She’s impossible. Always on my case, trying to control everything.

Friend:

That sucks. But like—what did she do? Was she abusive? Did she lie to you or betray you? Does she slave you areound with endless and unreasonable chores?

Son:

No. She just… always had these expectations….demands. And like tried to be my boss. Always correcting me. She wanted me to be perfect.

Friend:

Okay… but was she unfair? Like punishing you for stuff that wasn’t real? Was she constantly grounding you or taking your phone for no reason?

Son:

No, not really. I think I got grounded maybe once. She barely ever took my phone.

Friend:

So you weren’t in trouble all the time?

Son:

No, not really. She’d just get mad when I didn’t follow through or when I ignored her.

Friend:

So… she had rules?

Son:

Yeah, but she wanted consistency. Like, if I did something well for three weeks, and then I would drop the ball and she would correct or redirect me. Like the three weeks did not even count.

Friend:

Oh, she wanted you to hold a good standard and get back to doing the good job. That doesn’t sound crazy. That sounds like accountability… parenting?

Son:

She just wouldn’t let me do whatever I wanted. She’d say no to stuff sometimes. She expected respect.

Friend:

Did you guys ever try family therapy?

Son:

Yeah, but I went thinking it’d be my chance to explain my side, and maybe get the therapist to see how hard she is. I don’t think she went in expecting that.

Friend:

So… you weren’t there to try to heal things?

Son:

Not really. And she got upset in the session, started crying, and then it was like—“see? She’s so emotional, you can’t even talk to her.”

Friend:

So her emotional reaction to being overwhelmed was used as proof that she’s the problem?

Son:

I mean… yeah.

Friend:

And the worst thing she did was… not agree immediately to let you drive across the country at 16 without a plan?

Son:

She said I could if I had check-ins and stayed with people we know. But it felt like she didn’t trust me.

Friend:

So she wanted to keep you safe and be part of the planning, and that made her the enemy?

Son:

I guess. But still… she sucks

Narrator:

This is the anatomy of a smear campaign.

A person becomes “too much” only after they become unwilling to be mistreated.

They say, “She’s hard to deal with.”

But what did she do?

Ask again.

From every angle.

Ask louder.

Ask in front of the people who repeat the story.

Ask the ones who believe it.

What did she do?

What did she do?

And if no one can name it,

then maybe—

just maybe—

she didn’t do anything at all.

Maybe she just stopped agreeing to be the scapegoat.

Below are just a few of the books that have been especially informative and healing for me as I navigate my journey of recovery and self-understanding: