16 Blamed in Absentia

What we lived through was a masterclass in how quickly stability unravels when accountability vanishes.

Our quiet moments at home, moments of laughter and normalcy, began to wane. It started to feel like panic set in if those moments ever leaked into the open. Glimpses of connection between us seemed to trigger something. A backlash. A course correction.

Something felt very off.

One morning, there was a suggestion we go out for breakfast. It was a small thing, but it meant something. We had a nice time. There was a softness. The part that hadn’t been hardened by all the noise.

The outside pressure didn’t let up. It got sharper, more pointed. The more it escalated, the more confusing everything became. It wasn’t always direct. It was felt more than stated, like the emotional air in the room had changed.

I began to dread transitions. That’s when the confusion returned, like clockwork.

The shift wasn’t loud. But it was effective. It felt like guidance was giving way to near-complete absence. Like no one was really steering the ship. Just someone trying to be liked.

We would do something ordinary. Something connective. But then, a remark would be made about me being disliked. It felt obligatory, like a box that needed checking. As if enjoying time with me had to be followed by a performance of disapproval.

I kept trying to make sense of it.

But the messaging seemed clear that connection with me had to be corrected. It couldn’t stand on its own. It had to be reframed as pressure.

Because if the world saw them enjoy me, what would happen to the story that had been told?

Later, something done long ago was quietly attributed to me. Something I hadn’t done.

Hold the phone. It happened again. A past mistake, not mine, suddenly pinned to me so casually it nearly slid by unnoticed.

At first, I was stunned. Then I started wondering how many other things had quietly been pinned on me when no one was watching. The kind of twist that hides in plain sight, wearing the tone of someone who just wants to “explain.”

What else had I been accused of? Maybe not out loud, but quietly or subtly. In ways they might have picked up on without realizing?

I started thinking about all the tension that had built. The unexplained distance. The coldness that hadn’t matched anything I had done.

And I started wondering if maybe they were never reacting to me.

Maybe they were reacting to a version of me someone else had created.

Not all at once, but through repetition. Through retelling. Through projection that was pretending to be concern.

On reflection, I thought I was shielding them from pain. Protected reputations. Covered for the very things now being pinned on me. I thought it was love to absorb the damage and spare them the full picture.

But while I was doing that, he may have been painting a different picture entirely.

And if they believed that picture, if they carried it into how they saw me, then of course they felt distant. Of course they pulled back.

That wasn’t their fault.

That’s what happens when someone rewrites the story before you’ve had a chance to read the original.

I wondered, how many times has this happened?

I tried to contact him to discuss some things. No response.

We decided to do a family outing. A small trip with a special lunch. It was a normal day. But soon, a comment was made to shoot it down just enough to take the shine off.

It was guilt, I think. Maybe awareness. Maybe both.

Somewhere inside, they knew the moments we shared mattered. They knew the push-pull was difficult on all of us. But the script they had been handed didn’t leave much room for nuance.

Out of the blue, I received an urgent but simple message. Someone needing some help.

It was more than a question. It was a reaching. A kind of emotional permission to let go of the narrative and just be.

I responded immediately.

A few days later, he and I finally had a conversation. Something we hadn't done in a while. He said he was keeping busy. I said we both needed to encourage a better group of friends for the others to hang out with.

He shrugged. Said some were okay.

It wasn’t about control. It was about care. Guidance. Trying to steer the chaos a little bit.

But he didn’t seem curious. There was no concern. Just a flippant dismissal.

Even my concern got twisted into me being no fun.

In the end, those friendships turned out to be exactly what I feared. Chaotic and corrosive.

And then I got another message. Another reach.

Twice in one week, they reached for that lifeline. Twice they tried to undo in private what had already been done in public.

Again, I responded without hesitation.

Through it all, there seemed to emerge an unspoken rule - if they had a good moment with me, it needed to be balanced by hostility.

It was like if people saw I was kind, the whole narrative would collapse.

The more chaotic things became, the more calm I tried to offer. I didn’t play the same game.

Because deep down, I knew they still felt it. That small pull toward safety. That instinct to come home when it got too dark. Too heavy. Too real.

And even though everything around told them not to trust it, they still reached for it.

That meant something.

Bonus Story: An Honest Name, a Quiet Smear

There was a small event we were part of, meant to bring people together.

Somewhere in the shuffle, something went missing. Without hesitation, he implied it was me. Quietly, casually. Just enough for the seed to be planted. I was stunned. Embarrassed. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I said so. I asked him to help clear that up.

But by the time the truth surfaced, by the time it became clear he had quietly passed the item along elsewhere, it didn’t matter. The suspicion had already done its work. It wasn’t just a moment. It was a blueprint. A quiet smear, delivered with calm conviction.

And even though it faded from conversation, it never fully left.

That whisper shaped how I was seen, even when I wasn’t in the room.

This narrative reflects my personal lived experience and emotional interpretations. Names, identifying details, and timelines have been altered to protect privacy. I do not assert that my perceptions represent objective truth about others' intentions.