17 A Compass Unread

One month in particular was brutal. Not because of one singular event, but because of the accumulation of chaos, avoidance, and the way love got reframed as control.

I wasn’t just trying to be responsible. I was trying to hold a fraying thread to a house with no walls. And the more I tried to create safety, the more I became disliked.

Early on, an unnecessary request was made. I said no. Not because I wanted to ruin anything, but because things were already starting to spiral. I wasn’t comfortable pretending it was fine.

The next day, a hateful message. Followed by another request. I said no again.

We tried for normal. We went to a family gathering. Everyone seemed settled, at least for a moment. But some left partway through. And not happily.

I was picking the battles at the time. In hindsight, I shouldn't have relented. I should have picked every single one. It was so hard to tell.

A few days later, some things came to a head for him. It wasn't mentioned it to me. No warning to anyone else. Life continued as if nothing had happened.

In the middle of all this, I felt like someone was getting pretty overwhelmed. I checked in often. Softly.

On another occasion, an expected arrival was missed without explanation. I inquired and offered to adjust my schedule, if needed. There was no response until it was convenient.

It wasn’t forgetfulness. It was apathy. There seemed to be plenty of time for the fun and personal events.

The cracks were showing, but only if you were looking. I always was.

I left town for a funeral. While I was gone, there was a sense of chaos with no one stepping in. No one checked. No one cared.

Another outing was scheduled where there would be very large crowds. We agreed who would handle the drop-off. It was agreed I would handle the pick-up.

At pick-up time, I asked where they were last seen so I could go there. I was told that he hadn’t heard from anyone since the afternoon. This wasn't a situation where supervision should have lapsed. But instead of checking in, or even letting me know there hadn't been any communication for hours, he just...left. He went home.

No follow-up. No panic. Just resignation.

I was speechless.
You just... left??

That kind of disengagement doesn’t come from forgetfulness. It comes from refusal to engage. He didn’t want to do the work, so he stayed out of it. And when that silence had consequences, they landed on me.

It took me a long time to locate them. And when I did, I was both relieved and frustrated. Relieved they were okay. Frustrated that they ever had to be located at all.

It explains so much of their resentment. So much of the chaos had become normalized that they resented the interruption of it.

They didn't hate me because I was a bad person. They hated me because I was the only one trying to rein it in.
Because I checked in.
Because I made rules.
Because I cared enough to intervene.

And when I raised concerns, the backlash often came through others. I was blamed for making him mad or ‘getting him in trouble,’ even if it wasn’t said outright. I became the problem, simply for trying to solve one.

He wouldn’t talk to me honestly or outright. Wouldn’t coordinate. Wouldn’t hold others accountable.

So when things went sideways, I picked up the pieces. They didn’t always see that. They just felt the pressure, and it was easier to blame the person standing in front of them than to question the one who kept disappearing.

More and more, volatility took hold. I was called names and told things that felt outrageous, designed more to provoke than to inform. It was hard and so unfair. At one point, I even heard the implication that I was unnecessary, just take me away.

But privately? Even if I never got the full story, the reach was clear when it mattered. And when they needed a reminder of what was real, I was ready.

While things seemed to be unraveling, the distractions carried on. Social events always took precedence over any kind of follow-through.

Never bothered to follow up. Never asked how things were going. Never seemed to care about the fallout.

I was the one checking at 2 a.m. I was the one contacting outside assistance when it was needed. I was the one texting others, trying to keep them calm.

One offered freedom. I gave reality. And when reality was too much, I held it anyway.

They resented me because I was present. And presence, in a story built on escape, becomes the most dangerous thing of all.

At the time, I knew enough to be worried. Enough to see that something was veering way off course. But I didn’t know just how deep it went.

I didn’t know how much was being said behind my back, how many quiet lies were left uncorrected, or how far the deflection of guilt had spread.

Now I have a better understanding of a lot of things.

Looking back, it was worse than I even imagined. Not because I missed the signs, I didn’t.

But because I underestimated how deeply avoidance could entrench itself, especially at the expense of someone else’s character.

Especially when that someone else was the one holding the thread.

There’s no comfort in being right about dysfunction. But there is clarity.

And more clarity is what I carry now.

Why bring this up now?

Because some wrongs don’t just disappear with time. They linger in silence, shaping how people see themselves, each other, and what love should feel like.

I’m not sharing this for attention. I’m sharing it because truth, even uncomfortable truth, is sometimes the only path back to clarity.

Not for me.
For them.

Because the weight of falsehood shouldn’t be something they have to carry any longer.

It's about clearing a path that never should have been so tangled in the first place.

And because the truth, however late, is still an act of love.

This was a hard one to write, because it was the month I could no longer keep pretending that love would fix what accountability hadn’t touched.

This is my personal account and reflection.