Denial is in my DNA

Denial is my hometown.

I get this a lot — that I never accept my mistakes. That I deny everything I’m ever accused of. And honestly? Yeah. That’s true. It’s in my genetics.

It’s hereditary. I get it from my family.

They’ve denied me so much, I’ve started to believe that’s just how we bond. That’s our version of conversation.

Tell them they hurt my feelings? Denied.
Tell them I want to live my dreams? Denied.
Tell them they were wrong for casting me out of family decisions? Denied.

I’m not just familiar with denial. I’m an offspring of denial on steroids.

So when they came back to me — when I’d finally grown into an adult, just like they once were — and started asking me questions, it was time for me to don their role and lead with excellence.

And right when it felt like something real might finally happen, right when it was time for deliverance, an army arrived — AN ARMY OF INSTA-PARENTING THERAPISTS!

“They were first-time parents too.”
“They deserve kindness.”
“They were learning.”

Oh, please! Spare me the sermons!

I have a genuinely valid and interesting question -
WHERE WERE YOU INCONSIDERATE SHITS WHEN THEY RAISED ME?

They parented me like I came into existence just to carry forward their bloodline and extend their lineage of denial, and eventually pass it on to my kid.

HELL NO.

My kid will grow independently of whatever the hell it is that I have in me. I don’t want him to be anything like me. Or like them. Or like anyone, this entire bloodline has produced so far.

I don’t even know if I’ll succeed in that pursuit. I don’t know if something this deep ever really leaves you.

But I know this: I’ll die denying them the joy of seeing my kid turn out like them.

And once I die…
maybe then I’ll finally stop living in denial.

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