I’ve always gravitated toward books written by people who cast themselves as the truth-tellers in their families. Curiously, I rarely have the stamina to read these works cover to cover—usually, I just dip in and out, reading or listening to select sections. There’s an undeniable pull to these stories for me, and I think it’s because I unexpectedly assumed the role of family truth-teller at a young age myself. I sometimes blame my autism for this, but it’s been both a gift and a curse.
As a child, I never understood why adults could dictate that children should suffer through the holidays, or why the obvious truths in the family were never spoken aloud. The first crack in the façade appeared when I learned a relative had a mental illness. Suddenly, his distance at family gatherings made sense—but until then, all I’d been told was that he preferred golf. How strange, I thought, to tell a child their relative simply wasn’t interested in them, when you could have just explained that he was unwell.
The oddities only multiplied as I got older. In middle and high school, I noticed adults excusing each other’s bad behavior, and sometimes shaming me for even pointing it out. I would leave family gatherings not because I was causing trouble, but because I dared to acknowledge what others denied. While this environment wasn’t the sole cause of my mental health crisis, it certainly didn’t speed my recovery.
Throughout it all, I was urged to go to therapy and to learn about boundaries. Ironically, those same people were shocked when, after finding new strength, I no longer wanted to tolerate poor treatment. I’m still confused to this day. Was I expected to gain these new skills but then stay silent or participate in the systems that had contributed to my illness? Over the years, I’ve battled different manifestations of not feeling like I can trust my body: anxiety, depression, and an eating disorder.
What has become the most painful realization is that I was just a symptom of a broken ecosystem that was never going to fix itself. Because it had recognized the illness in me, I thought eventually the ecosystem was going to purge itself of every maladaptive coping mechanism and move towards a healthier future. I waited patiently. It has become clear that it never thought of itself as unwell, just the people who point out the obvious flaws. It takes me back to the story of the emperor with no clothes, and everyone around him plays along. The question I’m left with is: what if everyone was made to comply on pain of death, and those who didn’t want to comply anymore simply moved to a new kingdom?
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