Why is the broken one always the family glue?
It’s been a year since I (23f) left and decided to cut contact.
On that day, I couldn’t even step out the door without her pinning me down, struggling to breathe. My escape from that house of horrors ended with her arrest. She was released from custody the same day because I refused to give a statement. I didn’t want anyone in trouble. I just wanted out. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I was homeless for four months. Life was hectic but I survived. Now, I live with a man who loves me, who I love in return. We take care of each other.
And yet, she didn’t reach out until five months later. Christmas. Then New Year’s. Now Easter. Always the same tone, the same message still speaking on behalf of everyone else. As if their voices don’t belong to them.
My dad has said nothing. Not a word since I left. Nearly 60 years old, and nothing has changed about that pride of his that’s always been too big to swallow. My sister only reached out once, and when she did, she sounded just like my brothers when I eventually reached out to them. Carbon copies of each other. Full of disdain, echoing whatever version of me my mother’s been feeding them.
The fact of the matter is, I’ve always been the scapegoat long before I left. It doesn’t matter how I left, or how desperately she shaped the narrative after I left.
They already decided who I was: a “sick”, “mentally ill”, “demon-possessed” shame. A family disgrace.