That title isn't a typo. Usually, the phrase “The writing’s on the wall” is a warning, a sign of what’s coming.
But this ain’t that.
Last weekend, I impulsively booked myself a hotel room, thinking I was taking a sabbatical. I needed a break, just a few days to myself where I could reset and bask in silence.
Instead, I just ended up all alone with thoughts I couldn’t outrun. Thoughts about everything that’s been changing in my life lately, with still more changes to come, whether I’m ready or not.
So, I wrote. What follows is a collection of thoughts, so it’s not so much a neat "family estrangement and dysfunction" essay, but the cleaned-up version of what came to mind as I free-wrote.
The writings on the wall.
Marcus Aurelius (the G.O.A.T.) said: To offend a strong man, tell him a lie. To offend a weak man, tell him the truth.
I’ve caught a lot of secondhand flak (because no one will say it to me directly) for writing about dysfunction. Not because what I wrote wasn’t true, but simply because I wrote about its impact in the first place.
Writing is the only catharsis I’ve ever had. Some people meditate. Some drink. Others ride motorcycles. I write.
I write about my lived experiences, period. If that bothers certain people, maybe they should ask themselves why.
Now, God knows I’m not perfect either. When I think back on the stupid things I did years ago (hell, hours ago), I cringe.
But trust me, it’s gonna make great fodder for future stories. Maybe you’ll laugh at my ignorance and feel a little better about your own.
The difference is that my choices never put anyone in danger, broke any laws, or left collateral damage. They were my choices to own, and I do.
Real dysfunction leaves damage, and part of moving on is working through it.
The truth is that I don’t just write because I’m pissed off or feeling a certain kind of way. I also write when I’m sad.
Especially when I remember what family used to be for me.
Gatherings at my grandparents’ home weren’t fancy, but God, how we looked forward to them. We looked forward to being together, playing games, eating great food, being silly, and sometimes being raucous.
Then my grandparents died, and all of those moments became distant memories as my family fell apart.
When I married my husband, I thought maybe I’d found it again. He had a family of characters I couldn’t wait to be part of.
I wanted to learn their stories, celebrate milestones, and create memories. And with some of them, I did from the start.
But over time, they peeled away one by one. Bias and immaturity. Arrogance. Perceived slights and stale grudges.
That “big happy family” I’d envisioned dissolved. Then I realized it never really existed outside my own wishful thinking.
