Of course, I'm still very angry and jaded towards my family for their divorce and happenings preceding (and proceeding) it. They could've done so much better at keeping me safe and secure. But, they failed. Certainly, there are things they did right too, such as getting me into therapy from an early age and making sure to stay in my life. But, that neither excuses or overshadows their mistakes, and how those mistakes impacted me, both in the past and present.
I not only grieve over the girl and woman I could've been had I not been cursed with CF. I grieve the person I could've become had I been born into a healthy, tight-knit family. One that didn't force me to endure years of unspeakable abuse from a severely mentally ill stepbrother, or the wrath of an angry stepmom in denial about her son's condition. One that didn't force me to meet another of my mom's boyfriends every few years or so, and witness the breakup and the proceeding fallout. A family I could've looked up to and relied on for protection and sound advice, all of the time.
Instead, largely as a result of my rocky upbringing in a really unfortunate family situation, I've learned (emotionally speaking) that people are dangerous, stupid, and are most definitely not to be trusted no matter what. Everyone, including family and close friends, is a danger to myself and others, and are just waiting for the right time to fuck shit up. In some cases, this is true. But, most people aren't as bad as my upbringing would have me believe. Unlearning the lies my anxiety often has me believing has been tough, but also very rewarding.
Growing up, I never made close enough friends with others to really truly let them in. Sure, I made friends with people who were aware of my health problems, who saw the medications and treatments I needed, and still treated me like a human. But, those relationships only lasted for as long as I was going to the same school as they were. Meanwhile, my parents both had very close friends they'd made when they were in middle school, who have stuck around long enough to basically raise me, and who remain in our lives today. Because I didn't make friends like they did, I felt fundamentally broken, and even more angry towards my family.
Now, thanks to therapy and age, I'm getting better at realizing that my parents' friendships are actually quite rare. Most people don't make lifelong friends with people from middle school. Hell, most people don't even find their best friends in college. Though, I seem to becoming more and more aware of the fact that I've got good friends I met in high school. Or rather, that were sort of just dropped into my life by fate. I'm content with the friends I've made thanks to my writer's group, and I'm getting better and more confident when it comes to meeting peers beyond my writer's group. It's now just a matter of finding the right "tribe" and committing to spending time with them, much like has happened with my writer's group.
I no longer feel so broken and alone as I once did. Sure, the feelings of being broken and alone are still there, along with my anger towards my family and God. But, they no longer overwhelm me. Rarely, do they reach the surface. Though, I'm not yet sure if that's a sign that I'm healing, or a sign that I'm just repressing those memories. Either way, my feelings are valid, and what happened in my past was totally fucked up and uncalled for.
My parents should've done more to protect me, not just from their divorce, but from my stepbrother's (frankly demonic) mental illness and my stepmom's raging denial. I shouldn't have been subject to my stepbrother's mental illness like I had, let alone blamed for it by my stepmom. At the same time, it's good that the courts intervened when they did, even if it was a few years too late. Had it been any later, things could've gone so much worse.
Still, I wish my stepbrother was treated differently. Instead of putting him on heavy psychotics at a young age (which undoubtedly messed him up for life), the hospital should've done something much less extreme, like a therapy horse program like I was in, or intensive group/talk therapy, on top of regular check-ups and "tune up" hospitalizations. His parents should've been more involved in his treatment, and refused to put him on tranquilizing medication unless absolutely nothing else worked. But, unlike my parents, his parents weren't so willing to try everything else before going for the nuclear option (that being a hefty dose of anti-psychotics). They just wanted him to stop as soon as possible, and lacked the courage to actually be parents.
Instead, in a gross attempt to relieve herself of the guilt I can imagine she still has, my stepmom tried to screw me up, too. She blamed me for "breaking up the family" when I was just six years old, and spent the next eight years trying her damnedest to pound that into my very soul. To an extent, it worked. But, when I was fourteen and our "relationship" was severed, my stepmom showed her true colors towards everyone she knew I knew.
From posing as a "concerned friend" in an (illegal) attempt to get information from my therapist about me, to making up a baseless sob-story about how she couldn't sleep at night because of me and was afraid I'd murder her, she inadvertently confirmed to me that I wasn't crazy or making mountains out of molehills. What happened to me legitimately happened as I remembered them, and that hurts like hell to admit, though it's also equally freeing and validating. It wasn't my fault my stepbrother was as fucked in the head as he was. It wasn't my fault I was often subject to his sadistic nature. It wasn't my fault my family failed to protect me, leaving me to fend for myself for nearly three years.
My stepmom's projections were not my fault, either. They really had nothing to do with me (I was merely the target), I did nothing to provoke them, other than telling the truth to a therapist, who by law had to report what I said to authorities. Keep in mind, I was only four or five years old at this time, and had told my therapist about the ways my stepbrother was abusing me; things that no little girl (or little boy, for that matter, as my stepbrother was just a few months older than I) should even have the slightest idea about. Yet, I did, and I knew it was wrong, I knew it wasn't comfortable, I knew I didn't feel safe. Worst of all, I knew the adults in my life who were supposed to protect me were not.
After I began to relay this information to my therapist (and other trusted adults), an investigation was launched. Physical, documented evidence of my stepbrother's dangerousness towards himself, myself, and many others began to pile up so high, that every lawyer my mom contacted was more than willing to take the case, for little or no charge to my mom.
No matter what anyone may say, I was, and I remain, completely blameless.
There's so much more I wish I could write. There's so much more written of my past I haven't managed to garner the strength to uncover. I often ponder what might happen today, if I found myself in a room or a restaurant alone with my stepfamily, without my parents or other family members around me. I often ponder what might've happened had the courts not stepped in when me and my stepbrother were still in elementary school. I often wonder what might've happened had my stepmom (and in a way, my dad) not been in denial, and instead had the strength to get her son the best possible care and support? Much like how my parents worked their asses off to ensure that I saw the best doctors, went to the best hospitals, went to the best therapy programs that my insurance could cover. Why didn't my stepbrother's parents do the same for him?
I guess, people reap what they sow. In my parents' case, they have me. As terrible as my self-esteem and confidence truly are, my parents remind me how proud of me they are of me, and frequently highlight my maturity, intelligence, motivation, and overall strength. My parents have also admitted, many, many times, that they never expected me to get as far as I have. In the moment, they had to assure me that I was going to be okay, and I could achieve anything I put my mind to. But, deep down inside, absolutely nobody knew if I would survive to see my teenage or adolescent years. Until I did.
Absolutely nobody knew if I would be healthy enough to graduate high school, until I did. Absolutely nobody knew if I would garner the courage to get over my fears enough to walk my dog by myself, go to the mall by myself, take an Uber by myself, drive by myself, etc, until I did. Absolutely nobody knew if I would be able to be healthy and able enough to go to college, until I did. And, every chance they have, my parents remind me of this.
Meanwhile, as far as I'm aware, my stepbrother never graduated high school. He never learned how to drive. He isn't trusted around people or animals younger or smaller than him. He's supervised almost 24/7, only being left home alone for short amounts of time. His mom has guardianship over him. He will forever be reliant on hefty doses of severe anti-psychotic medications. He will forever pose a danger to himself and to others. It breaks my soul to write this.
His mom remains in stark denial of reality, and has convinced herself that I (a four-to-six-year-old at the time I spoke up about the abuse) "exaggerated" or "made it all up" at the time, against the overwhelming physical and emotional evidence (let alone what the hospitals, schools, and law enforcement had to say). For years, she also tried to convince me that I was the one who caused all that trouble. She went as far as to corner me whenever she could to berate me, tell me how much of a manipulative, dangerous liar I was, and she was the only one in the world who truly had the best interest for me at heart.
I knew I had to get the hell away from her when she decided to go after me while we were visiting Minnesota, and I was thirteen. With the family outside, and me inside taking some much-needed alone time, she attacked. Not physically, but verbally and emotionally, invading my space and raising her voice to scare me. And, when I threatened to go to family to sort it out (it being something that I don't remember), she instead decided it was better to take me on a little drive. She made me give up my phone, left her phone in a bedroom, told the family we were going to town, and spent the next thirty or so minutes tearing into me while we drove aimlessly around the country in the pitch darkness. Too bad I don't remember much of what transpired during our little "outing", other than she called me and my family every name in the book, including (but certainly not limited to) liars, psychopaths, dangerous, disorderly, abusive, so on.
But, no matter how angry and resentful towards me my stepmom may be, no matter how badly my mentally ill stepbrother abused me, I vow to never treat or think about them (or anyone else for that matter) like they treated and thought about me. Every day, I pray to God for the courage and strength to do what's right, to treat others right, to protect and serve the people around me, to amend and learn from the mistakes I make, to take control of my judgement and dissect my kneejerk reactions if/when I have them, to not let denial cloud my decisions and judgement of a person or situation, to not let anger and rage take over, to not let my fears and phobias control me, so on.
It's a constant battle for me, as it is for anyone. But, I'm learning, growing, and becoming more mature and able to love, trust, and just have fun each day, because I don't want to turn out like some people in my life have. Nor do I want anyone else I know to be traumatized like I have.
With that said, I don't think I can give my stepfamily a second chance like my dad hopes. I may be able to forgive and defang them, so I can go to family gatherings with my stepfamily without having my paternal relatives circle around me like a herd of muskoxen. But have a relationship with them? I don't think so. It's very sad that I'll never be able to sit down at the dinner table with just Dad and my stepfamily, or sleep under the same roof as them again, but it's just the way things are. It's just how the way things must be to keep everyone as safe as they can be.
It hurts me to say that, especially since I know it hurts my dad. But, it's not good to try to maintain a relationship with people as dangerous and unpredictable as rabid foxes, no matter how badly I wish I could. It's especially not good to do that, because I really don't have the power to mend my relationships with my stepfamily. In order for us to rebuild a sort of relationship, they'll have to approach me first and genuinely apologize, and work to repent and make things right. A simple, half-assed, "I'm sorry", a letter, or a couple gifts wouldn't even begin to suffice. Not after what I remember happening, let alone what horrific shit the court documents talk about.
Not that I expect any of that from my stepfamily to begin with. My stepbrother will never be in the "right" state-of-mind to be able to even recognize what he did, let alone feel any remorse for it, or do anything to change his ways. From what I understand, my stepbrother doesn't even have the ability to feel remorse or empathy for others, let alone build up the self-control to not hurt people or animals. As for my stepmom: I don't think she cares to or even has the balls to apologize and repent for her dire mistakes. She isn't safe for me to be around, either (though I don't exactly fear her or my stepbrother. I just know better than to get close to them). Which sucks so much.
Forgiveness doesn't mean "let's have a relationship again!" Forgiveness doesn't mean what my stepfamily did to me was even remotely okay or excusable. It simply means I've dropped the burning hot coals I planned to hurl at those who hurt me most, and am allowing my burned palms to heal.
