It’s the hardest thing, grieving for a family that’s still alive. For me estrangement came in stages, cycling over 27 years. It’s hard to even see that written on the page, but that’s how long it took me to be able to understand the collateral damage caused by denial, minimizing, blame and broken trust.

When I first confronted my parents about my childhood sexual abuse, I was 21. I was not believed. I was not supported. There was no family counseling. My experiences were not validated and instead I was made to feel like a trouble maker. My father maintained “he’d never hurt me” (which was technically true if he was referring to physical pain) and my mother steadfastly supported him. She went through a range of reactions over the years, denying anything happened, then later admitted to knowing about some of it, but justified my father’s behavior, minimized my experiences, or blamed me. Her confusion was painful to watch and painful to hear, as she went on the attack, “Why are you doing this?!” “You must have dreamt it.” “You always had a vivid imagination.” “You were a difficult child.” “You were always parading around.” “I hate you for this!!!” My (only) brother tried to tell me he hadn’t taken sides, but remained loyal to my parents, became “best mates” with my father and never visited me or called. His stance was, if I wasn’t actually raped, then it can’t have been that bad. His Christian wife prayed for our family for over two decades and once revealed that my mother had said to her, (in reference to her sons) “Thank God you had all boys!”

Even so, the constant minimizing and denial, planted seeds of doubt in my mind. What if they’re right? What if I’m crazy? Maybe I did dream it? Was it really that bad? So I’d close my eyes and allow myself to go back into the memories, just to be perfectly sure, and EVERY TIME, my body would begin to shake from its very core, and the memories would hit me hard, one after the other, until I’d begin to dissociate. Moments of intense clarity would make me cry out like a wounded animal from the sheer emotional pain as my system cycled through fear, shame, and anger. Exhausted and raw, the conclusion was always the same. It happened.

But my parents swept it under the carpet and carried on as if I’d never said anything and without anyone to validate my experiences, I continued to doubt my memory, my reality, my sanity. Desperate for parental love and acceptance, I clung to the ideal of family and went home for Christmas. I greeted them with a smile, my father kissed me on the lips and our tongues touched briefly as my mother asked, “What would you like to drink?”

By the time I was 33, I couldn’t take it anymore and I told my mother in more detail, everything my father had done. But instead of supporting me, she defended him again, then suddenly revealed her own childhood sexual abuse, minimized both her and my experiences and even gave me a history lesson on the ‘free-spirited nature of the ’70s.” Then she flatly announced that we were going to buy each other “Peace Presents” and never speak of “it” again, so that’s all I walked away with…a bottle of perfume from my father that I threw in the nearest bin.

The absence of any acknowledgment and the expectation that our family could now magically function “normally” ate at me and I just couldn’t do it. I was being silenced all over again, and I gradually slipped into a deep depression, feeling incredibly misunderstood, and completely worthless. Viscous emails flew back and forth, blaming me for destroying the family and reminding me of all the sacrifices they’d made for me: my education; the ballet lessons, all of which I am incredibly grateful for. This disparity made my head spin and I began to regularly feel separate from my body and detached from reality. After a car accident, I gradually developed a dependence on pain medication and began to spiral. Unable to handle this additional, relentless physical pain, I wrote my husband a suicide note and walked to the nearest bridge, ready to end my life. Instead, I ended up in a psychiatric hospital for 2 weeks, while I weaned off all medication under supervision. But even there, I did not receive adequate help. A male nurse checked on me during the night, which triggered a flashback, but still, my abuse was not addressed. I left there feeling even more ashamed, so I buried my pain further and carried on with life as best I could.

I was 40 years old, when my father called out of the blue one night to “apologize for everything he’d ever done to hurt me” (backtracking on his initial denial) but it was short-lived. Besides being extremely vague, he’d also called me when my mother wasn’t around and then asked me not to tell anyone about our conversation. According to my sister-in-law, he was terrified I was going to put him in jail, so they scurried around collecting evidence in their favor, all the cards and letters I’d written over the years, to prove how much I’d loved him, which I did, once. I was still contemplating this apology when my mother contacted me to let me know that “I might have been able to get my father to jump through hoops, but she and my brother were OVER IT!!” which sent us all back to square one.

Sorry or not, the hardest thing for me was broken trust. I knew I couldn’t undo the past, but I now had two children of my own to protect. Flashbacks hit me hard as my daughter grew through the ages when my abuse occurred and further confirmed that what had happened to me as a child was so, so wrong. I vowed to never let my father so much as lay his sleazy eyes on my precious daughter. She is the only granddaughter and not having access, sent them crazy. So then the stalking (that began when I was 18) started up again. I started seeing my parents everywhere, driving past our house, circling us in the mall, following behind me in their car, all of which was designed to further unsettle and disarm me. I began to see their abusive behavior continue to be played out and all it did was push me further away. They ignored my requests for distance and continued to send presents and messages to my children. They pushed my boundary line further and further until I began to fear for my children’s safety. I’d send the presents back and they would tell everyone they knew how vindictive and ungrateful I was. I’d feel guilty and so the cycle continued.

After years of being blamed, I began to realize that the way they reacted to me speaking my truth had become more damaging than the initial events themselves. The toxicity that was there from the start, just morphed into a different kind of abuse, psychological gaslighting and emotional abandonment, shifting the blame to protect their reputations and make me look like the crazy one.

The final straw came when my brother, father, and mother all got cancer within 18 months of each other, sending our entire “family” into a tailspin. My brother didn’t have the decency to tell me himself. Instead, my father called, in a last-ditched attempt to draw me back into the family unit with this “dramatic news,” but instead, I had an anxiety attack just hearing his voice. Despite the complexity of our family, I tried to be there for my brother, staggering my visits in between when my parents were there, trying my best not to upset him in any way during his radiation, surgery, and chemo. Then my father was diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. I found out 4 months after the fact, via my mother’s Facebook post, making me feel invisible all over again. My brother refused to give me any information, forcing me to speak to my mother, who ignored my calls. Then there they were again, messages IN BOLD urging me to “Stop living in the past and forgive my father “BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE” whilst simultaneously denying anything EVER HAPPENED and blaming me for my fathers’ depression. If nothing happened, what was I being asked to forgive him for?! A few months later, my mother announced her breast cancer, via messenger. Unable to process anymore stress, my system went into shutdown. I broke out in hives all over my body, and anxiety turned into back to back panic attacks. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t be there for people who had never been there for me. I knew this was the end. I spent three weeks drafting and re-writing my final letter to them, blocked all avenues of contact and went back to therapy. The next 12 months were a blur as I battled with anxiety, panic attacks, numbness, suicidal thoughts and an immense sense of guilt. I knew they would be spreading their warped view of me to anyone who’d listen. (How could she do this when we’re all battling cancer?) I felt like the worst person in the world. Despite debilitating depression, my children needed me so I dragged myself out of bed and continued to parent on auto-pilot. I was convinced my husband would leave me, but he was always there, with tissues, coffee cups and an endless amount of patience and unconditional love. I journaled, I rested, I thought, I cried and firmly believed I could never truly be happy.

Then 12 months after becoming estranged, a Facebook memory appeared of a bunch of flowers I gave my brother in hospital after his cancer surgery and that’s when I realized true healing was occurring. This one simple photo highlighted my true nature and how far I’ve come. Despite all the abuse, I still tried to love them. I am kind, I have tried. I did drive to the hospital, I’m not heartless. I’ve had years of therapy. But my brother never visited me. My “family” never acknowledged my trauma.” I’ve tried with all my might to “let go of my past” but it’s has re-wired my brain and very much effects my present. Every. Single. Day. I live with C-PTSD, always hypervigilant, in constant pain, I had my children without my mother, (and almost died from complications) I’ve had to parent without grandparents, I’ve endured lonely Christmas’s, Easters, bittersweet Mother’s Days, excruciating Father’s Days, I still struggle to fold my washing without a flashback, I still feel like I’m being watched and followed everywhere I go, and I’ve wanted to end my life several times. Where was my “family” through all my pain?! Believing me was fundamental to my recovery and that support was just never there. All that time I’ve felt like the black sheep of the family, but what if I’m actually the white one?

I finally see the innocent child who did her best and I’m so proud of her bravery. I am a victim of abusers and enablers, and this is the fallout. This is what it does to people. This is the damage. And despite it all, I am still here. I’m a survivor. My children are safe and happy and they love me. I am still happily married. I have beautiful friends. I’ve had a successful career. Somehow, my life is still rich. The force field I have installed around myself is not out of spite. It is necessary for my survival and I’m grateful I have more time on this earth to learn to live more fully and try to be present.

I have spent thousands of dollars on therapy. I meditate regularly. I practice mindfulness. I have considered forgiveness very deeply. I believe in karma. I know I have a limited amount of time to make a decision about whether or not I should see my father again before he dies. But still to this day, I do not see him having any real epiphanies. A vague three-minute phone call was not enough to erase the years of anguish his selfish lust has caused me and my mother keeps our family stuck with her absolute denial. I know I have to stay away but it still hurts like hell. I’ve come a long way, but sometimes I still feel waves of sadness, anger, shame, emptiness, or guilt. They missed my wedding, they don’t know their grandchildren, but then I remember my father has spent 40 years watching me suffer, listening to my mother and I battle it out, all the while knowing the truth because he was THERE. He dropped a bomb on our family, not me. If he hadn’t done what he did, NONE of this would ever have happened. He should consider himself lucky he got to keep his family and not spend his dying days in jail. For years, all I could see was how much I’ve lost, but I’ve also gained a lot: safety; self-respect; freedom; strength and clarity. I will not be blamed for something that was never my fault and while they continue to stick to their story and spread their lies, well… it makes my decision that little bit easier. I choose to keep my children safe and I choose to look after my own mental health. I choose my NEW family, the one I created. I’m teaching my daughter to trust herself and speak up when it matters. I’m teaching my son to be respectful and treat all people equally. I have stopped the cycle of abuse and for that, I am very proud.