“Dear Fake Family: You Lost Me for Good”

 

~By Ryan

"As his wife, I’ve watched him fight demons his parents created long before the world ever called him an “inmate.” I’ve watched him unravel in the middle of the night from memories he never asked to carry, trying to make sense of how the same people who gave him life also handed him destruction. This isn’t just another “angry letter.” It’s a release. A funeral for the people who should’ve protected him. And a declaration that the man they tried to destroy is finally standing up — not for their approval, but for his own peace." ~ DeAnna

There comes a point where silence becomes survival. Where you stop waiting for a phone call that never comes, stop begging people who birthed you to see you, and stop bleeding for people who wouldn’t even hand you a Band-Aid. That’s where I’m at.

You see, I didn’t wake up one day broken. I was raised in chaos. Born into addiction, taught pain like it was a family tradition. My parents didn’t teach me how to love — they taught me how to survive. My dad was the first one to ever stick a needle in my arm, and my mom was the first one to make me feel like I’d never be enough. Between the two of them, they managed to destroy any sense of innocence I had before I even hit my teens.

People wonder why I’m angry. Why my words cut deep. Why my music sounds more like a confession than a song. It’s because I lived it. Every line, every scar, every sleepless night replaying all the times I needed my mom to say “I love you” and instead got, “You sound high.”

The other night, I called her in the middle of a PTSD episode — my mind spinning, heart pounding, trying to ground myself. You know what she said? “You sound like shit, are you high?”
No, Mom. I wasn’t high. I was hurting. I was drowning. I needed my mother, not an interrogation. So I hung up. Because every time I reach out, she proves to me that she never cared to understand the difference between her son and her shame.

And my dad — let’s not even pretend. He’s the one who lit the match to my destruction. The one who made sure I was just like him so he didn’t have to face what he became. He called it bonding. I call it betrayal.

I’ve spent 27 years trying to crawl out of the same pit my parents dug for me. Trying to find worth in a world that told me I wasn’t worth saving. Trying to rewrite the story they forced me into. They made me believe being hard meant being safe. That showing emotion was weakness. That family was just another word for control.

But I’ve learned something they never taught me: I can break the cycle.
I can love without fear.
I can be loyal without losing myself.
And I can forgive without forgetting.

So here it is — my final goodbye to the fake family that made me, broke me, and blamed me for the damage they caused. You lost me for good.

I’m no longer your scapegoat, your excuse, or your punching bag. I’m a man. A husband. A fighter. I’ve faced demons most people wouldn’t survive, and I’m still here. That’s something you’ll never understand, because you were too busy running from your own reflection.

This prison bid? It’s not my ending — it’s my rebirth.
I’m becoming the man I needed when I was a kid.
And the next time you think of me, remember this:
You didn’t lose a son. You threw him away.
And I finally realized, that’s your loss — not mine.

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