Hello from the fuck ups.

We’re the family members who let you down. Who ruin holidays. Who can be counted on to have messy lives. Stops and starts. Mental illness, drug problems, bad relationships.  It’s awful, isn’t it?

We’re the canaries in the coal mine. You see us as the problem when we are really just a reflection of it. We’re the sensitive ones who feel so deeply that our “acting up” is just a reaction to not being able to put up with the bullshit around us. Your trauma is our trauma. Only it doesn’t wear so well on us. You can stuff it down into a little compartment and live comfortably like that for some years. On us, it’s constricting and itchy, so we buck. You don’t see the discomfort. Only the bucking. So it isn’t the trauma that is the problem. It’s us. It’s always us.

When we call it out…the lies, the neglect, the abuse, the cover up, the narcissism…we get killed for being the messenger. So it’s easier to just dismiss us as crazy or fucked up so everyone can continue on their happy, conventional, bullshit lives. The insanity is how you can live like that. How you can sleep at night. How you can face yourself in the mirror. How you can tell your friends with a straight face that life is peachy on Facebook while your secrets ooze from painted on smiles.

We aren’t special because we’re fucked up. We’re fucked up because we’re special. Ain’t that a rub to the sternum.