They said it wasn’t real.
That it was all in my head.
A child, I felt their judgment.
Their assumptions.
Like none of it mattered to so many of them.

For years, most of them never acknowledged it.
While the truth twisted
and bled in my gut.
It stole my sleep,
drained my childhood,
and left me in pain.

Only a kid, I blamed myself.
Thought I was weak.
Thought I could control it.
That somehow, I would find a way.
It wasn’t possible.
Yet still, I kept trying.
Thinking no matter what,
I could push through it on my own.

And every time I couldn’t,
every time it beat me,
I saw myself as a failure
for being unable to fix my insides.

They backed away,
one by one,
until few remained.

The rest stood back,
acting superior, smarter, better.
Always right.
Dismissive of it all,
including my mother.

Weren’t they
the first to disappear
when she became someone
none of us recognized?
When she wreaked havoc
upon our family?
On me?

I grew up
watching them care more
about appearances than truth.
More about each other’s opinions
than our struggle,
our pain.
So few ever reached out.

My family and I were the cracked mirror
they couldn’t bear to face.

But now,
now that my mother has been unraveling for years,
now that alcohol stains her every word
and eats away at her mind,
now that time is running out,
now that reality can’t be
ignored or rewritten,
they return.

With concerned eyes,
with soft voices
that try to smooth over the past.

They say they want to help.
But most seem
to be trying to quiet their own guilt
more than anything.

Otherwise, they wouldn’t
say the reckless things they say,
do the things they do,
or remain so cold.

They will never apologize
for being so wrong.
Pride and judgment
still gets in the way.

It feels like they look at my family,
and at me,
like a story they forgot to finish.

But we are not here
to be their redemption.

I see it so clearly.
And I remember it all.

I’ve always known it is real.
I’ve felt it for decades.
At times, feeling like a knife is stuck inside me.
Causing pain I could and can never fully ignore.

Their silence,
Their denial,
and their refusal to acknowledge the parts they played,
doesn’t mean it never happened.

And now that they can’t ignore it anymore,
they say they care.

Well, I see who among them
is really here.
Who is real,
and who still wears their mask.

And I find myself grateful
for those who are there.
Those who have lifted me up
instead of shutting me down,
trying to make me feel small.

Which helps me finally start
to let go.
Of the weight.
Of the pretending.
Of the rest of them.