They Were Never My Family

The more stable I become, the more I see it clearly:

They were never my family.

Not in the way that matters.
Not in the way that shows up.
Not in the way that loves.

They shared my blood, but never my truth.
They gave me a name, but never a home.
They labelled me — bipolar, mad, difficult — not because it was true, but because it was easier than facing what they did, or didn’t do.

They needed me to stay unstable.
Because if I became grounded, aware, and whole —
the narrative would crumble.

And now? It is crumbling.

Because I’m not afraid anymore.
I’m not trying to be accepted anymore.
I’m not playing the role of the “broken one” to make them feel better about their own disconnection.

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I’ve had better, truer connections with people I’ve met once in a park than with any of them.

And that’s not exaggeration.
That’s not bitterness.
That’s the truth.

Because real family shows up.
They listen. They see you. They care.

My biological family never did that.
And I’ve finally stopped waiting for them to.

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It doesn’t hurt like it used to.
It just… is.

Not resentment.
Not rage.
Just acceptance.
And, yeah — a bit of sadness. A quiet disappointment.

Because I wanted it to be different.
I tried.
I stayed open.
I kept hoping.

But they were never really there.
And I no longer need to pretend they were.

They were never my family.

And I’m free now.