The Art Of Not Giving A Fuck When It Comes To Family
When you finally realize it’s on them to do better and be better
My biggest fears were my family finding my writing, getting lost, and being unable to find my way home.
Let’s throw those additional fears of intimacy and vulnerability in there for fun as well. I’ve known for a while since I started doing the self-work on myself that I love people so passionately, and if I do, I’ll move oceans to take care of them, but I’d rather not be known or perceived as myself.
I knew automatically with my writing from a young age that when my family found it as a teenager and found my blog under a pseudonym, they would shame me about it.
And they did. My mother printed my autobiography that I wrote for fun on a writing website and handed it to my family behind my back, and my father was so angry that I described him as “talking more than he listens.”
When I decided it was time to shit or get off the pot that I wanted to publish my writing in print, I knew I had to be smart about my new name. But I made mistakes. I gave my mother one hint of how to find me by mistake when I had this new name, and she found me within a month — then sent one of my poems to a group text that had me, my dad, her, and my brother in it.
