ADVERTISEMENT
So I told her, “Not all at once, not every detail, but enough. The favoritism, the way my achievements were treated like background noise, the barbecue, the empty seats at my doctorate ceremony.”
I showed her the lone graduation photo and then, side by side, a screenshot from my brother’s barbecue taken at the exact same time.
They really chose a grill over a doctorate.
Her next question changed everything.
So she asked, “What are you going to do with that?”
I blinked.
What do you mean?
There’s a difference between a sad story and a revenge story.
Ava said, “In a sad story, the main character asks, “Why did they do this to me?” In a revenge story, they ask, “What am I going to do with what they did?”
That line lodged in my chest.
I started writing about family neglect, golden children, and invisible siblings, parents who call you dramatic when you point at the wound they gave you.
I didn’t use names or locations, but the stories were real.
One post in particular poured out of me.
When your parents skip your graduation for a barbecue.
I described the empty chairs, the phone call, the photo from the party.
I ended it with, “Some people will say you’re overreacting. Ask yourself why they’re more upset about you telling the story than about the story being true.”
The blog was small at first, a handful of readers finding it through late night searches about toxic families.
Slowly, comments started to appear.
This happened to me.
I thought I was crazy.
Thank you for saying it out loud.
My pain was no longer a secret.
It was a signal.
Question for you. If turning your trauma into a story could help strangers heal, but might one day blow your family’s image apart, would you still hit publish?
For almost three years, I heard almost nothing from my parents beyond stiff holiday group emails and the occasional forwarded meme.
I didn’t go home.
I didn’t send gifts.
When they called from familiar numbers, I let it ring out.
My new life as Dr. Madison Murphy filled up with work, clients, therapy sessions, and quiet chosen friendships.
The blog kept growing.
One piece about the ghost child and the golden child got picked up by a midsized online magazine that covered mental health and family dynamics.
They asked if they could republish it.
I agreed as long as they didn’t use my full name.
Just Dr. M, psychologist name for safety.
I forgot about it after I hit send.
A week later, my phone started buzzing during my lunch break at the clinic.
unknown number.
I ignored it.
It rang again and again.
Finally, a text.
Madison, please.
Continue reading…
ADVERTISEMENT
