The home of my childhood was built with stone held together with mashed up bones of previous generations. Curses thought to build the foundation solid, but the cracks in it surface exposed the silent truth no one dared to speak about. A place where narcissism was bred as much as self-loathing. They used their religions as a crutch to never have to face the truth of themselves. Children were the currency of broken hearts meant to carry on the damaged baton in a race we were never going to win. Siblings pit against one another to get the other to comply so no one had to face the sins of our bloodline.

I always thought I stood on the inside of the walls built of stone, but heartbreak showed me that none of us really did. Staring through the cracks, I saw the glow of the hearth that burned to keep the insiders warm; envy wedged itself in the spaces of my heart. Growing nothing but a bitter hatred that pulled all into its darkness. Laughter devoid of joy rang out into the night, singing into the ears of the outcasts who never cared to see each other. When the door finally opened, sickly warmth flooded the protection of the cool night. No one sat at the table within the walls of lies. We were all outsiders.

Estrangement is such a funny thing. Considered wicked to a society that trades last names, so they are not carried into graves. Blood was always considered thicker than water. A hard truth is that some people will never let back in no matter how hard they knocked on my door. Family is built.

When I chose to walk away people always questioned my ability to forgive rather than wondering why I chose to leave in the first place. At some point I was wrong about searching for peace. To build a home no longer built on the foundation of previous sins I had no control over, but instead on something new that could grow far beyond my lifetime. That the fire could be warm, the laughter genuine, and the table full of faces that felt loved beyond their ability to be complicit and the same.

I used to be so angry at my family, who was supposed to love me, for turning away from me for finally saying “No more…” Forever outspoken, my personal rejection of the way they thought was somehow a rejection of them personally. My voice ripped through the already tattered woven fabric that so many hands had once touched.

Then one day a realization hit me… the pain of my family was never about me. We all carried the cost. Overlooked and forgotten by the shackles of the blood that runs through our veins. The difference was I chose to face the truth of me. To sit in the discomfort of myself, not worrying if I was welcome into the empty house anymore. Forever the villain of some people’s stories for boundaries I chose to set. In the end I was the one to turn away at the cost of people who didn’t. A choice I made as much as it is theirs to stay.

Love was never about scorekeeping, using mistakes as currency to instill obedience for one’s own comfort. I am free from that weight. Making a story that is free of that with the ability to stain my own pages. Written on by the people who choose to love every version of me. Accepted at my best and my worst. People who choose to see the reality of my heart as much as I do theirs. And I hope as I write these last words that they too find their own peace. And that the curses of your family end with you…

Peace,

Shay

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