I Wrote About My Toxic Family, Then My Toxic Family Found Out

So, I stopped writing.

Last fall I started my writing journey on Medium, I thought it would be a place to heal and grow. Writing has always been a form of solace for me, now and when I was a child. I remember when I was thirteen, I wrote a fictional manuscript mirroring my own life. It was my way of coping. After years of consciously and subconsciously pushing myself down into a void, writing has been a safe way to explore my trauma and who I am.

I started on Medium with an expressed goal of working through my childhood trauma but it proved much harder than I expected. So I wrote about my relationships — the good and bad, — my sexuality, justice issues, and random topics I felt passionate about.

I wrote about my family too, but sparingly. It was painful to do so, even if helpful. My drafts are filled with countless stories unfinished. The grief of trauma is strong and some days, I couldn’t stomach the reality of the words on the paper. But still, I wrote when I had the strength. I told the truth.

And then my family found my pages of honesty.

I wasn’t actively hiding my Medium but I wasn’t broadcasting it either. Certain members of my family knew about it, ones I trusted and was excited to share my success with.

I understood other members may find out one day, I accepted that reality. Some days, I even thought about sharing my page out of spite. When manipulative words were thrown my way accusing me of abandoning my family (their way of saying healthy distance for my mental health), I wanted to yell “Read my words. Please tell me which part is worth my suffering or pain?”

But I never did share my writing. After months (and years) of trying to verbally share my thoughts, only to receive shame, threats, and selfish responses…the slim possibility of my writing getting through to my family wasn’t worth the risk of losing my creative outlet in the process. So I wrote my feelings. On Medium, in journals, on my phone’s notes, in text messages to friends who lovingly listened.

But most of my family was kept in the dark, I didn’t feel they deserved this part of me. And most importantly, I didn’t want their intrusion to impede on my love of writing. On my healing and growth.

Then my dad found my Medium and a hell-storm rained down. I received pages upon pages of accusations and attacks on my character. False assumption after false assumption. Narcissistic rage carefully crafted into polished emails and text messages. I received thinly veiled threats, with promises many members of my family shared his beliefs.

He vilified anyone who trusted me at my word, either I had manipulated them into supporting me or they were feeding me appalling advice. Apparently, all of my articles were elaborate lies to gain fame, notoriety, pity, or money. I was compared the Rachel Dolezal’s of the world.

So I stopped writing anything meaningful. I kept up with the publication I owned and penned a few pieces about movies or films, but I avoided writing anything personal. I couldn’t find it in myself to write for myself. I couldn’t even convince myself to write for people who looked for articles like mine. I couldn’t cope with more emails or letters than I was already receiving, I knew writing would just add fuel to the fire. I was scared, on some level I’m still scared.

My family is a parasitic force, the negativity is astounding. After a year of actively healing, I found myself sucked back in. Even though I kept away and stayed true to my therapists’ instructions to stay grounded, my thoughts were consumed by my father’s cruel words and the promise that other members of my family felt the same way.

I spent hours doubting my truth, doubting events I 100% knew happened. And then I spent hours guilty and ashamed of backtracking on the hard-earned progress I had made.

I grieved, thoughts constantly swirling around my tired brain. How could someone who’s supposed to love and care for me treat me like this…how could anyone treat anyone like this? I have loved my family with conviction and compassion, this is my pay off?

I regretted I hadn’t written more about my family, after all, I had written about milder events from my youth and young adulthood. If I was going to be attacked, I might as well be attacked for more than 15/160 articles. I was bitter and sad. After he read my pain and triumphs alike, the only response worth sharing was one of selfish spite?

I was lost. Medium and writing online was no longer a place of comfort, healing, and community. Just the thought of publishing something made me nauseous, I didn’t even try. My therapy sessions consumed with ways to find my footing, find myself again.

It took me months to write this or any iteration of this article. If I had written this earlier, I wouldn’t have been writing for me. It would have been to my father and other members of my family.

When writing this today, I continuously revised sentences. I’d write a sentence uncomfortably and delete it later because it wasn’t a sentence I wanted written, it was a sentence I wanted to be heard by people who don’t want to listen. And if that is not a waste of words, I don’t know what is.

For months I’ve wanted to find the strength to write, I was sick of my internal discouragement. I was angry at myself for letting my father’s words hinder me from doing something I love. But I’m glad I waited and took the time to rediscover what needed rediscovering. It was okay I didn’t have the strength before because I have the strength now. I was right to be patient and kind to myself because ultimately, I’m the one living in this body. Not my father, not my family, and not any of their toxicity thrown my way.

At the end of the day, I am so proud of my healing and my Medium is part of my growth. No one can take that away from me, least of all people who contributed to the hole I needed to dig myself out of.

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