We. Are. Family.

I realized at the last family function that I'm not going to miss any of them. None. I'll miss my little girl, of course, and mom and dad. But the rest of them. And it pissed me off when they all acted like they care that I'm leaving. They don't know me. They don't know how I think of them. I'm related to whores and molesters and thieves and psychotics. And I feel like I'm the crazy one. When I look around at all of them, I once saw the faces of people I used to laugh with and play Barbies with and have sleepovers with, and talk and talk and talk. And now I look at them and I see two dozen unfamiliar faces. I've know every single one of them since birth or since their birth, and yet I go to a fucking family party and it's as if I don't know a soul. I sit alone and I watch them, watch the thin layer of normalcy peel back to reveal the extensive coat of dysfunction beneath. I would never claim to be perfect myself. I get little fits of rage, get a little obsessive compulsive, and I cannot forgive, never mind forgetting. I cannot love outside my circle of those people who have never and will never fail me. Well, except for Ricky, but he's my exception to just about everything. I love my mom despite her lack of complete sanity, I love my dad despite his past dysfunction, and I love my little sister despite, well, nothing. I don't ever want children and people look at me as if I'm a bitch for saying so. But I don't. I know I couldn't make a good mom. And I've got Ryan. Ryan's my kid. That's all I need. And I love Ricky despite him being exactly me, and I don't necessarily love myself. I don't know if I love my older sister. It's hard. I don't hate her anymore. I've accepted that we'll never be close like I wish we could be, like we once had a chance to be. I'm so angry at all of them for letting this show the dysfunction that every family has, but that we were so good at hiding. 

On the night I found out, I held her as she cried and, although my breathing was accelerated, I didn't cry myself. One tear, perhaps, but it was forced. Because I knew that there was so much to be done. I couldn't let myself care. And it is so freeing to be able to do so. I never let myself love him, so his betrayal was nothing. Nothing. I was surprised, but when I heard what my mom told us, I didn't doubt it. Not for a second. I've become so quick to believe the worst in people because that's all I've ever seen. I have firm loyalty to such few people that I don't care when other people deny me or prove my cynicism right. I actually feel better, because I must be doing something right. I don't feel the betrayal or pain or sadness, except for when I sleep. Then the dam breaks but it's fine, because I'm so deeply, so reassuringly asleep. I had to leave my room just now because her fork kept hitting the side of the bowl, over and over and over. I felt anger welling up at her stupidity and had to leave. I have to leave. And for once, I can say that I am leaving. Permanently.