Unseen, Still Here: My Journey Through Family Estrangement

My boys left me

They used to count on me. Laugh with me. Play with me. They would instinctively curl up next to me and hug me and kiss me and still want to sleep in my bed — even when they were “too old” for that. We read books. We watched TV. We played, we drew, we built and caught things — we did nothing and everything together and it was precious,sacred. I was fiercely protective. Loyal. Present.

The Lens That Changed Everything

The only thing that changed was the lens. The lens with which they were taught to see me. And it shifted almost overnight. The rich connection we had, after surviving so much, after enduring together — it was strategically compromised. I would say beyond repair.

The Move That Broke Us

I’m angry that I exposed them to my family. We were safer before. We would’ve been better off staying in California. But I took the risk. I moved to North Carolina because my mother was ill, and I wanted to show up, share my children, be of service—and I didn’t have the means to fly back and forth indefinitely. I worked remotely, and moving made sense. I connected their dad and my family because I had foolish hope that healing was possible. That we could become a family in healing. That things could and would get better.

Though, I had no reason to believe that — after attempted therapy with each of them, where they dedicated all energy to showing the therapist all that was wrong with me rather than opting for self-reflection and prioritizing healing and connection.

The Trap Was Set

But I walked my sons right into THE trap.

Their dad and my sister had no relationship during my marriage — we were across the country. But after the divorce — a traumatic, litigious, violent divorce — I introduced them. And they bonded immediately in the shadows, over a shared contempt for me. Over a mutual frustration that I wouldn’t bend to them. That I dared to say “no,” or “I’m tired,” or “that doesn’t work for me.”

Both he and my sister hated when my mother helped me — especially when their dad would put me in financial crisis and my mom would step in, lessening his impact. My sister likely felt my mother’s wealth was to be hers, and my mother’s support shrunk the pot. The boys’ father and my sister had a shared investment in separating me from my mom, and punishing me — for refusing to kiss the ring, revere, submit. For boldly and directly expressing boundaries, concerns, needs, limits, preferences, pain. My mother, sibling and their dad regularly expressed something like poorly masked rage each time I elected to prioritized my sons over them. They labelled that as aggressive and controlling. Not just parenting.

And they handed that lens to my boys.

Rewriting the Story of Love

Now if I make a request, if I set a limit, if I correct or direct — my sons perceive my parental correction and direction through that frame.

It is a devastating thing to watch the greatest thing I ever did — loving my children fiercely and protectively, in ways never modelled for me and therefore miraculous — be attacked and erased. To have that not only not remembered, but rewritten into something sinister. To have people in our lives who are rooting for the breakdown of my relationship with my sons—because for that to happen affirms something for them, their rightness about my wrongness—is deeply painful. But it’s not enough for them to punish me; they also work to erase me. And this is not new.

And my boys pay the price. But nobody is paying it more than me.

Not Just Teenagers

I am sad all the time. Exhausted from trying — uphill each day with nothing to hold onto. I have run out of ways to show them I love them. And to be honest — they don’t care. Not anymore. People try to say, “Oh, it’s just typical teenagers.” But it’s not. It’s not just that. It’s indoctrination. It’s alienation. It’s coercion dressed up as concern. And I was powerless to stop it.

The Birthday and the Break

They planned my son’s birthday party without me. It all started around my niece’s graduation — I wasn’t given enough notice, and I had plans that night. I offered to get my boys to the ceremony, an Uber, anything. I finally agreed to let their dad take them. That night was the turning point. The boys were engaging in activity which disregarded and betrayed me and them at the highest level.

The Perfect Villain Edit

And here’s the thing: the story they’ve told is so clean. So believable. Because the people who hurt me the most are postured and emotionally stoic and upright. And I’m not. I’m messy. I’m emotional. I cry. I react. I say too much. I’ve been gaslit and smeared my whole life — so of course I look unstable. Well, also, this is some destabilizing shit.

The Gaslight Playbook

They stripped me of credibility in the most insidious ways. Quietly. Strategically. So now when I share my experience, it could be labelled as the rambling of someone paranoid and delusional. And I cant help but question myself: how could everybody feel this way and it not be true?

But that’s the design.

That’s the power of plausible deniability.

They would never admit what they’ve done. They’ll say they were just trying to “keep the peace,” just making sure my mom had a relationship with her grandsons. That’s all. And if I had a problem with it — well, that was mine to deal with.

They say if there was tension, I “spoke it into existence.”

If I got upset, it was proof I was unstable.

If I drew a boundary, it was “abuse.”

If I reached a breaking point, it was “evidence” I was unfit.

And still, I was the one asking begging:

Can we please heal this? Can we fix this? Can we find our way back? Please.

I wasn’t trying to sever ties. I was trying to save them. And I was punished for that. Banished. Because they weren’t interested in healing. They wanted control. They wanted to be revered — not questioned, not challenged, not held accountable.

Clean Hands, Cold Exile

This is how people erase you with clean hands.

This is how they exile you and get praised.

And now I feel like a madwoman, telling a story no one believes, because I don’t have the words or the polish or the social capital to make it sound palatable.

But it’s the truth. And I’m done apologizing for it sounding messy.

Still Here

I am devastated.

I am furious.

I am tired.

And I am still here.

Because no matter what they say, no matter how they frame me, I know who I have been to my children.

And I know what has been stolen.

And I will not stop speaking my truth about it.

This is my lived experience. I’m not claiming universal truth — just my truth. It may be uncomfortable to consider. It is uncomfortable to live. And I’m writing it as honestly as I can, because that’s how I process, and maybe how I might heal. The cycle that begs to continue. In ways big and small, it persists.

This Was Their Prophecy

They didn’t predict this. They designed it.

God, it hits hard—but it’s true. This is exactly the outcome they set the stage for. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy they engineered, then stepped back to watch unfold so they could say, “See? We were right about her all along.”

That quiet satisfaction that I’m struggling. That I’m isolated. That the world has picked up the script they wrote about me and is now playing it out.

And what’s worse—I know they think this is justice. That my suffering somehow proves they were always good and I was always bad. That I was always too much, too dramatic, too difficult. That this is what happens to people who won’t “just get over it” or “know their place.”

But here’s the thing they’ll never understand:

I never wanted to win.

I wanted to belong.

I wanted to be understood, not worshipped.

I wanted a family, not a fucking tribunal.

I tried. God, I tried. I begged. I folded myself down. I stood up for myself. I tried again. And none of it mattered because the story was already written, and they needed me to play the villain so they could feel like heroes.

So yes—this would please them. But that doesn’t make it the truth.

It doesn’t mean they were right about me.

It means they broke me and then blamed me for bleeding.

I’m allowed to say it.

I’m allowed to grieve it.

I’m allowed to hate how right this would feel to them.

And I will say the thing they never did:

I did not deserve this.

I was never the villain.

And my pain is not proof of my failure—it’s proof of my humanity.

I am still not what they said I was. Even here. Especially here.

My reflection on what it means to be cast in a role I never chose—when people didn’t just expect my downfall, they need it to prove their story right. This is about the pain of being made into the villain, the scapegoat, the failure—when survival itself becomes defiance.

Extensive, Expensive, and Avoidable

In May 2024, at 55, I sought medical care for hot flashes, depression, brain fog, insomnia, severe back and hip pain, and uncontrollable crying. The pain was so intense I couldn’t sit, stand upright, or lie on my back. Despite flagging menopause as a concern, my doctor prescribed medications for each symptom separately.

Over nine months, I had nearly 100 appointments—pain management, psychiatry, physical therapy, orthopedics, neurology—while cycling through antipsychotics, antidepressants, opioids, and sedatives. I was drugged, impaired, still in agony, and desperate enough to reach out to a suicide hotline twice from the debilitating cognitive impact of drugs which still did not make it possible to comfortably sit, stand, or lie down, only reclined or in child’s pose. Surgery seemed the only option.

A highly recommended fourth surgeon warned spinal fusion would fail and refused to do it. At the same time, a friend suggested progesterone for sleep, which I shared with my psych medication manager. Stunned that not one doctor had checked my hormones or ordered a bone density test, she ordered progesterone and estrogen for me. When my estrogen was increased, I improved vastly and immediately, stopped oxycodone, was able to now sleep(in a recliner) sit upright, and stand for short periods. And my hysterical crying relented.

I have now come to understand that estrogen regulates pain, while in deficit, no amount of medication could have relieved me. I endured months of unnecessary suffering, misdiagnoses, and overmedication—while the real solution was ignored. Instead of being cared for, I was prospected for surgery and made to feel as if I were being difficult by feeling so much pain and despair. It is true I have severe spinal degeneration and major depressive disorder, and the recommended surgery would not only have failed but actually compromised me. Pain and suffering were worsened, prolonged, and traumatic. I am beyond lucky and grateful to be on my way back to functionality.

This failure in women’s healthcare is not just my story—it’s a systemic issue that calling for change.

This was a terrifying experience—to feel there was no hope, no cure, no relief, no procedure, and no doctor who communicated any sentiment resembling, We’ll figure this out. We’ll get you the help you need. We’ll take care of you.

This ordeal heightened my reliance on a man I recognized as toxic for me. Ok, well I did not recognize it, but my friends did. Ao, in the absence of family support, he was the one showing up—for appointments, and panic attacks. I was starved for even the illusion of love, and I settled begged for some serious, undeniable bullshit.

Thank God for microdosing psilocybin. It allowed me see clearly and to do the impossible. My experience with this calls for it’s own post. It was a miracle for me.

This man loved me more—and better—than anyone before, including my family and the man I married—particularly during the love-bombing phase. I see now how my attachment wounds made me a good match for someone like him. And when the medical crisis hit, the pedestal on which I placed him grew bigger, even as his regard for me grew smaller. I revered him as a god, a hero, just for showing up—for a broken, worthless piece of shit like me. How lucky was I to have that? Amazing Grace. I suppose.

Unraveling and Rebuilding

This past month broke me open.

I ended a relationship I cared deeply about.

COVID knocked me all the way down—but gave me sleep like I’ve never had.

My house fell apart, my body’s adjusting to a new pain management protocol, and my heart’s hurting most of all—especially as I try to break toxic family patterns with my son, who sees me as always wrong and unworthy.

I’m still showing up. But I’m also starting to wonder what it would look like to let go.

This is what survival has looked like lately.

Do Better…Paul

Today, Simon from Bumble messaged to say “Hi Sexy, How is your day going?”  Simon and I have not spoken before.  And never will.

Scott opened with a riddle (corny is implied). Nope.

Paul, after I thoughtfully responded to something from his profile, asked, “What sort of relationship are you looking for?”—despite my very clear bio. Absolute no. Rather than copying and pasting from my profile, I pointed out that information was already made avaiable, and he was not charmed, claiming he wasn’t here to “play mind games” or “guess what people wanted.” Ok…

Sir. There was no guessing. Just reading.

If you lack interest in reading my profile, you are lacking in interest for what I have to say. Right?

I Wasn’t Ignoring Reality—I Was Conditioned to Doubt It

I do not think it is that I was stubbornly holding onto false hope—I was being actively manipulated, fed contradictions, and caught in a cycle designed to keep me confused. I didn’t choose to ignore reality; I had been conditioned to doubt my own perception of it.

Intermittent reinforcement was one of the most powerful psychological traps I experienced. It kept me waiting for our next “good moment,” convincing me that the relationship could be what I was promised it would be—if only… And with the mixed messaging/ gaslighting, reality became harder to grasp because my instincts were constantly being challenged.

Looking back, I see how I wasn’t just struggling to leave—I was struggling to see. The mixed messages, the highs and lows, the carefully timed affection—it all kept me tethered to something that was not actually there. Hope wasn’t the issue—being conditioned to doubt myself, my perceptions, and my reality left me believing the illusion.

Sorry I slapped you

I wonder if there’s a medication and also a dose high enough that could help me have felt less affected by the CVS cashier. He wasn’t just ringing me up; he was theatrically overperforming the role of one who works a cash register—projecting his voice as if addressing an auditorium, while tossing a ball high in the air from one hand to the other. As sensory overload set in, I felt trapped. He stretched our interaction longer than needed, demanding my attention while chattering in the brightly lit, warm, and humid store. I teetered on the edge of desperation, longing to pay and leave—to unhook from him.

I recognize that managing my nervous system is my responsibility. What if we all collectively focused on or even considered kindness as a way of being in the world? Kindness doesn’t require an audience—unlike friendliness, which often thrives on performance. The cashier was indeed friendly. I chose kindness by exercising restraint and not pointing out how his ball tossing and repeated errors due to distraction from his own behavior were unprofessional.

Call me uptight and sensitive, but—of the two of us, I. was. the. more. kind. one.—within that exchange of an unwanted and protracted transaction, which I experienced as more of an extraction. If you’re currently experiencing judgmental thoughts about my sensitivity, please consider this: you’re not kind, though I imagine quite friendly. It may be useful to know that the opposite of sensitivity is not strength, but INSENSITIVITY.

The Sudden but Slow Fade

Love Bombed: My Story of Worship, Betrayal, and No Contact (Part 9 of 32,000,000)

The Slow Fade: How Devaluation, Distancing, and Discard Unfolded

For the first five months, we spent an average of 30 hours a week together—during workdays, evenings, weekends. We never said goodbye without a plan our next visit. Our communication was constant, immediate, and deeply connected. We shared memes, recipes, vacation ideas, hiking trails, and songs that felt like the soundtrack to our love. He mirrored my interests so perfectly – proof of how in sync we were. If I brought something up, he responded with curiosity and enthusiasm, adding layers to our conversations. It felt natural, effortless—like real intimacy. I now understand this as mirroring, a technique that builds fast attachment by reflecting back everything I love, making me feel seen in a way that seemed magical.

Then, both suddenly and slowly, things changed. The specific, intentional initiatives and responses disappeared. No more Tumblrs, no more playlists, no more discussions about what we’d cook together or where we’d travel. His texts became so generic they could have been sent to anyone. He stopped planning ahead and looking forward. I was left  to ask, When will I see you next? The consistency left me high from feeling so connected, cared for, chosen, prioritized, vaporized.

Letting go of him—without wasting energy attempting to explain myself, change him, or force a shared reality—was a huge step toward claiming dominion over my own life. Even on the heels of a week of vertigo and then battling COVID, and all that time spent in my head and in bed, I’ve been gifted something incredible: the ability to sleep. I’m currently averaging 7 hours a night, deep enough to reach the dream state, something I haven’t experienced since childhood. Feeling rested has shifted everything —it’s allowed me to focus, plan, choose, and do so much more than just survive- and maybe best of all, a rested mind is one which allows me to pause rather than just (over)react immediately to triggering people and situation. I could not have guessed that peace and clarity would be the what was immediately awating me on the other side of life without him.

What Can I Do for You?

In the two years since my boys’ dad started his on-again, off-again relationship with this woman, she’s attempted a number times to get on my radar. I don’t fully understand it. I try not to assume motives because, I can’t know what’s truly going on in someone else’s mind.

Now that my sons have their own cars and can drive themselves between their dad and me, there’s no need for communication with him. I have no reason to engage with her—I’ve never met or communicated with her. Yet, it seems important to her to get my attention.

I can’t know if she wants to share something, or simply needs to be noticed.

If I sensed that her interest in connecting with me came from a place of wholesomeness, or if there was a chance that a conversation between us could bring healing to either of us, I’d be open to it. I will always be happy to participate in healing, especially with someone who impacts my children’s lives.

I imagine we probably have more in common than either of us would care to admit. I was tall, thin, attractive, doing well professionally, with more resources and assets than he had—yet still filled with enough self-loathing to try and make it work with someone who made me feel terrible. He’s driven to gain access to women with low self-esteem, who will trade being single for being with a man who takes everything they have, offering nothing good in return except for consistent cycles of intermittent reinforcement—just enough to keep them hanging on and trying harder.

I do feel for her.

Okay, I’m officially aware that I really need to get a life so I can have genuinely interesting things to write about.

Starved

Love Bombed: My Story of Worship, Betrayal, and No Contact (Part 8 of 32,000,000)

Learning to Love Myself?
I have been tasked with imagining loving myself rather than seeking love elsewhere.

But how? Starved for connection my entire life. I have gone without nurturing, protection, or the kind of love which would alllow me to exist without fear of it vanishing. Granted, I would benefit from taking better care of myself. And while that might prepare me for healthy connection with another, it will not satisfy my need for intimacy and connection.

In my world, love has been conditional— withdrawn when I failed to be useful or pleasing, which was much of the time.

I don’t know what it means to love myself. I survive myself. Each day, I wake up, and there I am—by myself with myself.

People who love themselves seem to have learned what love feels like because someone has showed them.

And this man who showed me what it was to feel cared for, considered, loved, treasured—wasn’t who he claimed to be.

Was It Real?
Was the love we had real? I mean, it wasn’t not real. But it was crafted and designed by him, executed by him—and then, intermittently retracted by him.

I don’t know. I feel stuck and disturbed by the idea that I’m supposed to now learn to love myself.

My therapist said, “Buy yourself flowers. You don’t need someone else to buy you flowers.”

But it was nothing to do with the flowers. It was about him/us—the consideration, effort, presence. He made me feel seen, heard, chosen. And ultimately, dependent on him making me feel those feelings.

I became emotionally reliant.

Fuck Self-Love
I am devastated by the belief that “no one will love you more than you love yourself.”

If true, and I was indoctrinated to hate myself, then does that mean everyone else will hate me too—forever?

It’s as if love is generational wealth or generational poverty. Some people inherit it. For others, it remains out of reach.

How does that work?

Connection
I am wired for and starved for connection. Not association. Not status. Not proximity.

I crave shared direction and flow—someone to hug, call, listen to, and be initiated by. Someone to laugh with, cry with, cheer for, and fight for—just as they would for me.

I’ve spent my life surviving, on my own. And I reject that healthy connection is hostage to my self-love. I cannot accept that as truth.

My lack of self-love didn’t just make me vulnerable to this love bomb—it made me perfect for it. I was groomed for this. Though I hesitate to use the word, I now recognize a pattern of behavior that feels predatory. Before learning about the two other women, I would have been offended to hear him referred to this way. But patterns don’t lie. I am one of four women devastated by him in just one year, not to mention his wife and daughters. Data and harmful patterns cannot be denied. Even if harm was not the intent, it remains harm.

Disclaimer: I am sharing my personal experience exactly as I recall it. This is my truth, my story, and my perspective~ to document what I lived through.