The Curse of Being the Emotionally Stable One

I was just trying to perfect my pubic hair routine.

There I was, in the middle of Target, scanning the aisle for the right trimmer—trying to get rid of those pesky ingrown hairs and shit. Just a little peace. A little self-care. Nothing deep.

But apparently, even that is too much to ask.

Because the second I let my guard down, someone calls.

And not to say hi or check in. They call to dump.

This time, it was a family member. Right there—mid-aisle, mid-vibe, mid-trying-not-to-spend-$200—and, as always, it wasn’t a conversation. It was a monologue. They needed someone to unload on. Someone to unpack with. Someone to twist the story in front of. Someone who would listen but not expect accountability in return.

I knew it would happen eventually. I’d already heard about their latest drama—what went down, what they did, what got reported. And I chose not to get involved. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t ask.

Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

But of course, they couldn’t resist bringing it up.

Not to own it.

Not to reflect.

But to reframe it—to make themselves the victim again.

Then—because dysfunction loves company—they dragged someone else into it. Another family member.

Apparently, that person “judged” them. “Betrayed” them.

Because in my family, calling someone out gets you exiled.

But emotionally dumping on them? Totally acceptable.

I listened. I gray rocked. I stayed neutral. And when the moment came, I said what needed to be said:

“You don’t have to be friends with someone just because they’re family.”

It was a soft landing for a hard truth:

I’m not your friend just because we share blood.

Their response?

“You’re not my favorite.”

I laughed. “So why are you talking to me then?”

They said, “Because you’re fair. You’re not my favorite, but you’re fair.”

As if being fair means I’m obligated to stay on the line.

As if being emotionally stable means I’m on-call for every emotional crisis.

They come to me when they need money.

They come to me when they need advice.

They come to me when they need someone to cry to, scream at, vent to.

But when have I ever gone to them for anything?

Never. And that’s not an accident.

I stopped expecting anything from them the day I realized they never even noticed when I went quiet.

The truth is, I never expected much from them to begin with. Not even as a kid.

I learned early that being invisible meant being safe.

Attention came with strings. With ridicule. With punishment.

I never asked to be seen.

Not as the problem. Not as the scapegoat.
But somehow, I became the reason they felt their family had been replaced.
The placeholder for everything they lost.
The projection screen for all their pain.
That’s the kind of trauma nobody warns you about in a blended family.

They used to read my journals to my face.

Pick them up. Flip through the pages.

Point.

Laugh.

Loud enough for the room to join in.

They didn’t need to go behind my back.

Shaming me publicly was part of the fun.

So I stopped writing.

Stopped sharing.

Stopped feeling—at least around them.

You want to know what’s in my journal now?

Go ahead.

I wrote this one for you.

They were the ones who taught me that showing emotions was a sign of weakness.

To this day, I struggle with showing affection. With saying “I love you.” With letting people in.

Because when I did, as a child, I got laughed at. I got humiliated.

They didn’t just mock my feelings. They taught me to bury them.

And then they had the nerve to call me cold.

They antagonized me for becoming the very thing they helped create.

And when I bring that up?

“We were just kids.”

“There you go again with the ‘we bullied you’ shit.”

No. I remember.

Just because you don’t feel guilty doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

You were old enough to be cruel.

And you’re old enough now to take responsibility.

But you don’t. You never do.

So no—I don’t owe them kindness.

I don’t owe them energy.

I don’t owe them access to the healed version of me they had no hand in building.

I owe myself peace.

And I’m tired.

Tired of being the fixer.

The emotional janitor.

The one who keeps the peace while everyone else runs around lighting fires.

I’m done carrying people who wouldn’t lift a finger for me.

I know who I am.

Your opinion of me doesn’t define my worth.

Your drama doesn’t live in my home or in my head.

I’m not your therapist.

I’m not your wallet.

I’m not your emotional support human just because we share a last name.

And here’s what really baffles me:

You obsess. You gossip. You twist everything I say, everything I do.

Meanwhile, I don’t think about you unless you force your way into my day.

I’m not here to audition for your approval.

You said I’m not your favorite?

Cool.

You’re not mine either.

So keep talking.

Keep watching. Keep analyzing. Keep projecting.

I’ll be over here—freshly exfoliated, emotionally unavailable, and finally at peace.

That’s the cost of what you took from me.