Conflict is not the enemy of connection. Avoidance is.” against a minimalist background. The quote highlights emotional intimacy, trauma healing, and healthy communication in relationships.

Stonewalling Breaks Me

Stonewalling breaks me. I don’t bounce back from it. But I’ve repeatedly and predictably returned for more. Hopefully, for the last time.

The silent treatment and banishment were the standard responses to any need, limit, boundary, preference, or discomfort I directly expressed—first in my family, then in nearly all of my relationships.

To request consideration was labeled and dismissed as being difficult. Who tf did I think I was? The consequence was silence. Banishment.

But I do not seek control over others.  Just consideration.  Collaboration. 

I do though, consistently tether myself to those who believe their needs, desires, and comfort matter more than mine—more than anyone’s. 

And perhaps, for the less sensitive (neuro-typical and untraumatized), with more resilience—it’s less of a problem..

But, for me, it’s not less of a problem.

I will not readily surrender to anyone who is actively unwilling to support my wellness, peace, or comfort.

The same people who require a presentation of ease and happiness —refused to be influenced in any way that might support my comfort or peace. Their message was clear: be happy on their terms, or leave. Let go, or be dragged—those were the only options.

I can’t ignore the pattern: being discarded by people who believe some people matter more than others—who resort to stonewalling and triangulation when things get hard. But I see now that pattern reflects the kinds of people I’ve been drawn to—what’s familiar, what I was raised on, not—the kind of person I am or what I deserve.

It’s what they do. Some ride it out as if it’s no problem and learn to accept this.  I’m not one of those people.  My most recent relationship began as a D/s dynamic. I was intentionally seeking to submit to a trusted man—someone who would find deep satisfaction and inspiration in prioritizing my needs, desires, and limits, while holding the control to lead as he wished. I still desire this kind of intentional, structured connection—rooted in trust, and a shared vision.

I’m someone who will probably always seek a deeper understanding of conflict, apology, and repair. The books below have been especially meaningful to me on that path.

– On Repentance and Repair by Danya Ruttenberg

– The Book of Forgiving by Desmond Tutu

– Why Won’t You Apologize? by Harriet Lerner

My hope now is to stop choosing people who must always right, never sorry, and determined to get their way at any cost—people stuck in binary thinking and zero-sum dynamics, where one must win and the other must lose.

I want to win with the people I love, not over them.

My deep need to engage honestly—to acknowledge and work through the mess—won’t align with those who need others to shrink, be wrong, or give in so they can feel right, in control, or above it all. I’m learning that real connection cannot be built on that kind of imbalance.

A woman sits alone in a dimly lit room, facing away, symbolizing emotional disconnection and the pain of being stonewalled in a relationship.

Drawn to the Closed Door

I’ve come to understand something about myself, and it’s both painful and clarifying:

I gravitate toward people who use silence as a weapon. Stonewalling—cold, controlled, absolute silence—is a dynamic I know intimately. It’s the language of withdrawal I’ve been trained to translate as love.

Even now, with every resource and insight and therapy under my belt, the discard silence doesn’t hurt any less. I know it’s not love. Not the wolesome sustaining and sustainable safe kind of love.

I know the kind of closeness I long for—deep, mutual, and safe—is only possible with someone who meets conflict with curiosity, courage, and a genuine desire to understand, de-escalate, and reconnect. Someone who can both hear and express hard truths with love.

Stonewalling says so many fucked up things without saying a single word:

  • You’re not worth responding to.
  • Your pain doesn’t move me.
  • I’ll withhold presence until you behave the way I want.
  • I am in control. You are not.

It’s psychological starvation. It’s abandonment dressed up as “calm.” I must stop trying to decode someone else’s refusal to show up. I know that in addition to being deeply wounded, I’m kind, funny, generous, caring, playful, intense, hard-working, full of integrity—all of it. I’m so many good things. Being stonewalled and discarded by people who do that to others says nothing about me—except that it’s what I’ve been conditioned to expect. Kind and evolved people simply don’t behave that way.

man sits inside a house on fire

When You are Going Through Hell, Keep Going

To call my medical journey traumatic is an understatement. But honestly, just navigating a highly overstimulating planet often feels like trauma.

So, I used to trust doctors implicitly—like-if one said I needed surgery or medication, I’d say Ok, Let’s do it.

I met with three surgeons—whom I experienced as ungenerous with care and time. Each pushed spinal fusion as the only option- not solution- just option – Get the surgery or get lost. So, I sought a well-trusted referral, someone widely recommended, and waited three painful months to see him—to schedule the surgery. He was generous with his time and information, AND advised against it—low chance of success, and no certainty it would even help the pain. The realization that someone would open and screw into my spine when it is not absolutely going to serve me, was devastating. But it tracks: those meant to care for me often have not.

I accessed 2ndWebMD, a resource through work. That specialist confirmed low success probability for me with spinal fusion—same reasons. And then the pain management circus. Unmanageable pain landed me in the ER twice before I resorted to family medical leave- unable to sit at a desk or even lie comfortably in my bed. Ironically, not having family or a partner to support me through surgery saved me.

I hit a low. Taken down by the cycle of chronic pain, bad care, and shit drugs. Then– a near fatal reaction left me hospitalized, and in treatment where I remained on the EXACT same meds—including —in fact- they upped the dose of my pain killer. Given that I don’t tolerate a glass of wine, caffeine after 1pm, an antihistamine, or a hit off a joint, I suppose this is unsurprsing. Hey, yeh, let’s try opioids and see how it goes.

I am so ready for new direction and alternatives.

The idea of being stuck in this RX protocol and in these circumstances forever has been unbearable. And today, I see a glimmer of a path. I originally relocated here for my mom, my kids, and my best friend. Now, with my older son having graduated and other relationships having shifted, those initial reasons no longer strongly anchor me to this home.

While it is heartbreaking, only in this way have I become open to selling my home- downsizing, relocating–offering me the chance to pay off hefty medical bills and our new HVAC. I welcome the shift. The option to relieve financial stress and panic and maybe even save some money feels life giving. To be able to grab a meal or a coffee out or take a trip….Previously I could afford no such things — these basics were far out of reach and that made for a painful way to live.

Teen boy alone - afraid

The Cost of Courage

I just sent this text to my boys and their father. I can’t help but worry about my older son—the only one showing up for me.

I want to say something out loud that maybe no one else will: Will is showing up for me in a way that I know costs him something. In a family where my pain has been dismissed and my worth debated, standing by me isn’t neutral—it’s brave. And I worry about what that costs him. The pressure, the judgment, the way love gets turned into betrayal depending on who he gives it to. I just needed to name that. Because it’s real. And it matters.

Will is the one person who’s shown up. I don’t take that for granted. But it’s not without cost.

This isn’t just a family. It’s a system. One where love gets twisted into disloyalty depending on who you give it to. Where supporting me doesn’t just mean caring—it means being on the wrong side of the crosshairs. Guilt by association.

And when a system like that feels threatened, it punishes. It isolates. It retaliates. I worry about what it’s costing Will to love me out loud in that kind of environment. About the pressure he’s under, not just from the weight of what I’m going through—but from the quiet (or not-so-quiet) ways others might be letting him know he’s “on the wrong side” for showing up for his mom.

He’s 18. He shouldn’t have to carry this. And the fact that it could be said by others that I AM DOING THIS TO HIM. The ones who choose to add to the emotional and psychologial gravity for him.

I love him enough to know he shouldn’t have to take this on alone.

But here we are.

I’m compelled to say it because I think he might feel it and not know how to name it. And maybe if I say it, he won’t feel as alone inside it.

I’m feeling deeply affected by those who understand sacrifice only as sacrificing others, rather than sacrificing for others. Why should Will feel anything but supported during this time? What kind of good person would add to his burden—or even fail to show up for him by asking what he needs and how to support him?

I don’t turn good people bad, kind people unkind, or loving people unloving.

Contrasting expressions of emotional coldness and vulnerability.

The Hospital, The Label, and Claiming Truth

Recently, during a hospital stay, I was sedated and vulnerable. At one point, I was physically handled with what felt like completely unnecessary force. I weigh just under 120 pounds and am 5’11″—it’s hard to imagine I presented a legitimate physical threat that justified that kind of response.

When I expressed fear and asked to speak with a superior in hopes of de-escalating the situation, the hospital security guard responded by pointing to his cartoon star badge and tightening his grip. He dismissed me with a toothy laugh, saying he was the boss—making it clear that no other help would be coming.

What followed left me not just afraid, but bruised—black and blue on my hips, shoulders, neck, jaw, and inner thighs. In his incident report, he justified the force by labeling me a “high elopement risk.” Then came the clinical label: paranoid.

I asked the therapist—Is it paranoid if I’m afraid of someone who actually hurt me?

She said no. She said that’s not paranoia. That’s survival. That’s the pattern for survivors of abuse.

I’m not paranoid. But I am deeply impacted by energy—especially from people who seem to need control, and who interpret my questions or directness as threatening. Sometimes, just naming what I see is enough to trigger a power struggle I didn’t mean to start. I’m still trying to understand why that happens.

It seems that, for some people, especially those heavily invested in being seen as in control or above reproach, my presence feels like a challenge. Not because I’m combative—but because I notice things. I ask things. I don’t always smooth things over when something feels off.

And maybe that’s part of the pattern I was shaped by. I’ve come to recognize certain dynamics as familiar. I don’t seek them out on purpose, but I’ve learned to move toward what I know—even if it hurts. It’s a reflex, not a choice.

I don’t think I’m manufacturing chaos by checking in. But I’ve learned that when my curiosity or directness shines light where it’s not welcome, it can trigger others to control or silence me in ways that are confusing and destabilizing. I react—not to create trouble, but to make sense of what’s happening. And, before I even understand what’s unfolding, I’m in the crosshairs. And the thing will grow into something larger—a kind of smear campaign—a need to establish my invailidity and worth, to deflect light away from the thing I asked about.

Silhouette of a person sitting alone, hugging their knees, symbolizing emotional vulnerability.

My Sister, The Dynamic, and the Setup

Historically, my sister frequently would corner me and ask, “Are you okay?” But it wasn’t because she cared. It was because she was ready to go to battle—ready to dispute whatever was concerning me. She was scanning, trying to see if I was remembering. What could I say? What did she need to do to preempt and manage the narrative to maintain her posture of elevation?

If I asked her the same thing—”Are you okay?”—she’d become immediately agitated, cold. Because code says: winners don’t struggle or suffer. And if I thought I sensed struggle or suffering, that in itself was troubling—like a chink in her armor. If I pressed, because the energy told me something wasn’t okay, she’d say my asking was the problem. That I was manufacturing chaos.

Then she’d go cold. Say I was too much. And get busy doing and saying subtly destabilizing things (dog-whistling)—So that my instability could be illuminated. So that my lack of credibility could be seen.

Same thing with the man I married and now with my younger son. “Are you okay?” Those are fighting words. Because winners and perfect people are okay. Any suggestion otherwise is insulting and crazy.

She molested me—more than once. I was too young to understand or articulate what was happening. Plus, I was the disruptive pariah. And the family pitied her for having to deal with me at all. I loved her. I wanted her approval, her closeness, her friendship. I was seven years younger, deeply sensitive, and trusting. What she did to me robbed me—of my trust in myself and others, my safety, and my body.

She dedicated her life to burying me along with her secret. She had to dismantle me— to make certain I’d never be believed.

She’d make comments to me about her gay friends—always in a distancing way, like she wasn’t anything like them. When trying on clothes or shopping for a purse or sunglasses, she’d ask, “Do I look like a dyke?” or “I feel like a weird desperate dyke.” I laughed. Calling it WDD. Made a W with my hands. Said, “Fuck it, just rock the WDD.”

Frequently declaring how baffled she felt by gayness. Such a mystery to her. But she thought and spoke of it more than most.

Now I think maybe what she was really asking was: Do you remember? Do I look like someone who did what I did to you?

Two of her girlfriends had facial hair. It vexed her. She’d ask, “Why don’t they take care of that? It makes them look like dykes.” Like, why aren’t they more concerned?

She judged signs of queerness and difference—loudly. While also insisting she was cool with it, as evidenced by the number of gay friends she had.

She worked to curate a version of herself that wouldn’t be questioned—while ensuring I was completely questionable. Non-credible.

Rightness is quiet. Emotionally vacant or well-contained. In every way, the opposite of a highly sensitive, neurodivergent survivor of abuse.

People who are abused don’t act right. Fact.

I was treated harshly for my constant emotional reactions. For being sensitive. For struggling.

It was easier to call me crazy than to stop abusing me—or acknowledge that abuse was happening. My big sister alternated roles: rescue, reward, destroy. Kindness wasn’t part of the pattern. Her interactions were calculated. Designed.

That dynamic in my formative years put me on a trajectory. I married someone who did the same.

Now my son shows up in similar ways. If I react, he points to the reaction as the problem. He turns my pain into proof that I’m troubled. Harmful. When I ask for respect, when I ask him to stop—he flips the script. I’m the issue.

Same story: Destabilize me, then call me unstable.

And in the binary system we were raised in, my wrongness equated to her rightness. My sensitivity proved her non-sensitivity—which is often confused for strength. My lack of composure illuminated her contained way. She got the most traction by simply not being me. Or being like me.

A large, dark bruise on a thin woman’s hip, photographed as documentation of physical trauma during a mental health hospitalization.

What Happens When You Ask for Help

After my time in the ER, I had a distinct handmark around my throat, bruising which is still sore on my jaw and side of my head, the insides of my thighs and arms, and my right shoulder. Within this blog template, I’m only able to post one photo per post, and these on my hip are the most prominent. The photo was taken yesterday—11 days since the incident.

I’m coming to understand how it is that I’m a perfect target for a certain kind of abuse—the kind where someone who feels entitled to being seen as both strong and perfect proves to be imperfect, and my having witnessed or challenged that becomes the threat. So they degrade and destabilize me, then use my reaction to discredit me. They mess up, hurt me, cross a line—but instead of accountability, they flip it. They point to my visible unhingedness, my state of instability, and say: That’s the problem. Not what they did. Not the harm. Just my reaction to it.

That’s how the cover-up begins. If I can be labeled as unstable—and if others believe it—then what I say won’t matter. That’s the pattern I’ve been groomed to fall into.

It sets up a lopsided equation: one person gets to be the calm, contained, rational one—the one who “keeps it together.” And by contrast, I become the mess. The problem. The one who feels too much, reacts too much, asks too many questions. I’m the chaos they can point to when they need to prove their own steadiness. I make a perfect scapegoat.

Eventually, I internalized it. I learned to take the blame before it was even assigned. To assume fault. To second-guess my own senses. I never knew what was actually mine and what had been quietly handed to me, expected of me, or planted in me through years of gaslighting and imbalance.

It’s a mindfuck: being both the witness and the accused. Seeing the truth and still wondering if it’s my fault.

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.