In January of 2009 I made a phone call that changed the course of my life forever. I called the woman who I knew as my mother, who I have up to this point simply referred to as “my abuser,” to tell her about all the wonderful things going on in my life. What mother doesn’t want to know that their child is happy and thriving? Mine. 

She never learned what those wonderful things were. When she found out that I intended to talk about myself she immediately began berating me, calling me selfish because I didn’t call to listen to her talk about how terrible her life was. I didn’t call to take ownership of my parent’s damage so I was called selfish and demeaned for two hours. This was the culmination of 23 years of life with this woman. This was what I was used to. 

In the months that followed I attempted to negotiate boundaries with her in an effort to keep myself safe, but it proved futile. I was left with only one rational course of action: to say goodbye. 

Instead of respecting this singular boundary I left for her, she tarnished my name within my family and forced them all to choose between us. (She then spent the next 10+ years finding ways around that boundary and manipulating anyone she could to gain access to me.) One singular member of my family reached out through all of this to make sure I was okay, but he’s gone now. 

In the 12+ years since declaring my independence from trauma not a single member of my family ever asked for my side of the story. Most of them have no comprehension of why I made the choice I made. These people who watched my entire life unfold before them for 23 years had zero knowledge of what I’d been through. What this woman had put me through. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter what my story is. The past is behind me and the trauma is slowly fading as love and healthy relationships fill in the darkness. 

For a time I thought I was strong enough to claim my seat at the table, to have a family and be loved by them. Recent events have proven that I was wrong. After years of putting in the effort, of reaching out and trying to connect, not a single member of my family (save a cousin who has also been set aside by them for daring to believe she could feel safe) bothered to prioritize an event that would only happen once in my life: a baby shower for my first child. 

I can forgive a lot of things, and I can be compassionate and understanding to considerably more, but I can’t deny the return of those feelings from all those years ago. Something wonderful is happening in my life and instead of celebrating with me I have been abandoned. Again. Left feeling selfish because I wanted to revel in this beautiful moment. Though one person made the effort to make a small blanket and send some used baby items my way, nobody else made any effort and even that single person failed to show up when it mattered. 

I spent the night before the baby shower crying quietly into my pillow. I would sleep for an hour, wake up to pee, and then cry for 2 hours. The cycle repeated until dawn. I began what should have been a fun and love-filled day with tears in my eyes—devastated that all the time and effort to repair these relationships had been a waste of time. 

My cousin, the only family that has consistently been a source of support and love for me, told me after the shower that I should put the past behind me and leave it there. She was right. Family isn’t supposed to hurt like that. I had friends make the effort to tune in to the baby shower from Serbia and Argentina, so there was no excuse why my family couldn’t be there. 

Year after year, special event after special event, they all failed to show up. I think I wanted them so badly I ignored the fact that they didn’t really want me. The ones who made minor efforts don’t even know me. They have no idea how I think or feel, what kinds of things I like, or what I like to do with my time. The funniest part of it is that they’ve been grieving a loss for years of a person that I was very much like. I sat at his funeral and realized that he and I were very much the same kind of person—except that I don’t care for sports.  But while he was celebrated and then grieved, I have been discarded unceremoniously and forgotten. Because he was a good boy who didn’t rock the boat and I was a trouble maker who dared believe I deserved happiness. 

So I finally accept what my family has been telling me all along—I am not one of you. I do not belong in your lives, nor you in mine. In order to live the life I have worked so hard for, I have to let go of the past. I have to let go of the people who want the credit for being my family, but who refuse to put in the time. I need to be done with empty apologies and love that hurts. 

My family are the ones who show up even if they have to sit on the lawn of their church building to be able to tune in to my baby shower in time, or watch from the car because they are prioritizing me while attending to their responsibilities. The ones who put in the effort to plan my baby shower, text me on my birthday, and make time for me during intermission at the ballet. My family are the ones who know who I am and can tell when I’m not okay even when every word I say tries to sell a different story. They’re the ones who protect me from the darkness inside and make time for me when there is none to spare. The family I choose is the family that doesn’t hurt. Blood no longer counts for anything.