It wasn’t until earlier this year that I understood I’d accepted the role of the “bad daughter.” I didn’t realize how many choices I made for the purpose of living up to that role.

My sister was skinny, pretty but dumb. I was fat, bad, smart. Now, I wonder if either of us ever truly challenged the labels and roles? Did we know to?

Earlier this year when this family crap fell in my lap I remember thinking to myself, this can’t be right, this can’t be true because I’m the one who messes up. I’m the daughter who disappoints. What is my sister doing? I was to fall on my face, disgrace the family and live up to the “bad daughter” role. Now it’s like, how on earth could it be possible that the good daughter would step outside her role? Will her future decisions be based on that role or will she continue her course.

Growing up I knew I was trying to appease the mother any way I could. I’d support her emotionally, be her friend, make her laugh. I might have been called the bad one, but I was still the one who tried to pacify her. Peacemaker.

I’m going to stop short on this subject by saying. I look at my abusers trying to manage their lives. By the world’s standards they are successful, but all I see are frightened little girls who never faced their issues. I look at my 90 something year old grandmother and think, she’s not too old to be held accountable for shattering the lives of her children. My grandfather is dead, but his impotence allowed for such a wide spillway of rage inflicted on those children. They are still children but they don’t know it. I wonder if they ever will?


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