There’s a particular kind of silence that only comes after you finally stop trying. To no longer pickup the plowshare and trudge through the mud, losing your footing – but to walk away. Peace hasn’t knocked on my door but I may not have answered anyway. I’ve been questioning myself all week if I’ve done the right thing.
Not the silence of peace—not at first, anyway—but the kind that echoes. The kind that makes you question whether you did the right thing, even when every part of you knows you had no other choice.
This is the story of how I got there.
I believed that if I simply tried hard enough—if I explained myself better, if I was quiet, and less sensitive. That one day, something would click, and the people who were supposed to protect me would finally see me. Hear me. Choose me.
You start to notice the absence of something that should be there. Support. Advocacy. Love. The feeling that someone would step in and say, “This isn’t okay,” on your behalf.
And when that doesn’t happen—when it keeps not happening—you start asking yourself questions you never thought you’d have to ask.
Questions like: Why am I not worth protecting? Can’t anyone see that molesting children and CCSA is wrong? Do I deserve this?
That question has sat heavily in my chest since I was a kid. The more I heal from these traumatic events, I see how differently we’ve lived our lives and how we value others.
I wrote my parents a letter earlier this week and they should’ve received it today. Our relationship still hanging on by a thread, until the letter was read, and now most likely severed.
We’ll see what their justification is for masturbating in front of us and our friends as kids. Allowing Sexual Assault and Domestic Violence at every turn. Friends, trusted professionals, and extended family were also participants.
The Ultimatum:
I asked my mother to stop volunteering with disabled kids because we all know why she chose that group. Defenseless Kids in the bathroom, alone.
Going no contact with my parents wasn’t a dramatic moment. There was no final explosion, no perfectly worded goodbye.
It was quieter than that. A one page letter.
Growing up, we were regularly told we weren’t wanted and wished we weren’t born. If that’s true, that explains part of why we were allowed to be constantly abused.
I honestly can’t handle anymore.
Going no contact isn’t just about cutting people off. It’s about grieving the version of them you needed but never had. It’s about letting go of the future you imagined—one where things finally got better.
It’s about accepting that closure doesn’t always come from them. Sometimes, it has to come from you.
I’ve given myself permission to grieve and walk away.
It’s sad they won’t try to follow – but that’s not my decision to make.
Because now, the answer isn’t something I’m waiting for them to give me.
It’s something I’ve already decided for myself.
I am worth protecting.
And for the first time, I’m acting like it.