10a Emotional Laundering

By the time school started again, the photos still looked happy. Backyard dinners, traditions, road trips. There were times of ease in simple gatherings, laughing and talking over takeout. A feeling and reminder of how good things feel when everything isn't so tangled. But underneath that calm, something much harder was happening.

Tension still showed up in indirect ways. More surprise schedule changes, mixed messages, and vague promises dressed up as freedom.

Still, there were sweet moments. Yummy coffees and light, unguarded, hopeful conversations. New friendships were forming. At the time, it felt like positive social growth. Later, it became more complicated.

Within weeks of a new friend, the tone started shifting. Comments turned sharper. Jokes edged into discomfort. Sarcasm replaced sincerity. A simple curfew became a punchline. Normal parenting limits were one-sided, creating confusion and frustration. Not because they were unreasonable, but because someone else never had to enforce any.

I tried to keep balance. We went to a festival, tried to stay connected through little rituals. I was still holding the thread, not realizing how many hands were quietly pulling it loose.

Outings turned into a mix of genuine connection and pushing limits.  The pressure started showing. There were snapshots of discomfort, quickly followed by toughness or humor.

Meanwhile, I’d ask, again, for boundaries to be respected. The response sidestepped the concern with things like ‘they asked me, not the other way around.’ It was familiar. Someone else made the choice, so no one had to take responsibility.

Instead of mutual support, I saw patterns. There were often long-winded stories that painted him as the misunderstood hero and me as the obstacle. When the story didn’t fit reality it changed, sometimes mid-sentence.

But what concerned me more was that some of the stories were wildly inappropriate for the audience and age. Oversharing details no one else should have to carry.

When someone is caught in the middle of two conflicting narratives, one that stays consistent, and one that shifts to suit the moment, it’s disorienting. Especially when the more flexible version offers more freedom. 

That’s how it starts. Not with clear lies (though some came later), but with subtle distortions. Say yes when they need a no. Call structure “control.” Praise rule-breaking, but only when the rules came from me.

More boundaries slipped and the excuses came fast. Secrets and silence multiplied. Plans were made without me. Basic expectations were dismissed as overbearing. Fewer and fewer things were adding up.

Someone else’s shame was being passed down for them to carry. Like emotional laundering. Dressing up dysfunction and handing it off as a gift.

That’s when I really saw how easy it is to shape someone’s behavior when guilt becomes the currency. Soon, compliance feels like a choice.

Say yes when they need a no. Undermine structure in the name of “choice.” Call accountability as meanness. Reward disobedience if it’s pointed in the right direction.

Later, I’d learn just how far things had gone. Lapses in supervision. Concerning behavior. Real risks spun as gossip. Warnings dismissed as “drama.” By the time I understood the full picture, trust had already been eroded. Not just with me, but within their own sense of what was safe, who was safe, and who was telling the truth.

That erosion doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like humor that cuts. Distance that numbs. Someone parroting borrowed bitterness without realizing that’s what it is.

Because when you're given the role of confidante, scapegoat, or emotional caretaker before you’re ready, you don’t know that’s not normal. You don’t realize it’s a trap.

That kind of pressure doesn’t always feel like pressure. It can feel like privilege. Being on the “inside.” Being told you’re more mature than you are. That you’re the only one who really “gets it.” That kind of closeness can feel intoxicating until it collapses under the weight of what it was really built on.

And when I tried to step in, tried to reset and rebalance, the backlash didn’t come to me. It came to them.

That’s how twisted the dynamic had become. If I spoke up, they were the ones who paid the price. Guilt. Distance. Silence. Emotional confusion became the cost of my concern. I remember comments to the effect of, ‘because of you, I had to talk to mom.’

And that became a cue. I wasn’t a caregiver, I was a consequence. As if contact with me was something to endure, not something to value. It became a way to outsource the resentment.

It felt like since he couldn’t express his bitterness directly, he passed it through them. His silence became their distance. His frustration became their sarcasm. His blame, their rejection. They were never the source, but they were the messengers. 

I kept trying anyway. And I kept trying even when it cost me closeness. Even when I was mischaracterized. Even when my love was used against me.

Because I knew they were watching everything. And I wanted them to see, eventually, what real love looks like:

It doesn’t guilt you. It doesn’t use you. It doesn’t need secrecy to survive. 

No one owes anyone silence to protect pride. Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own life.

And it doesn’t require you to abandon yourself.

This is my personal account and reflection.