To be honest, I’m terrified. I feel stuck in a limbo of conflicting emotions, grappling with a dilemma I can’t seem to resolve. As much as I wish for him to see himself clearly—to realize the damage he’s imposing on our family—I’m equally afraid of that moment of reckoning.
Imagine being someone whose entire sense of self, entire personality, belief system, and identity is built around the idea that they are normal, kind, and genuine. That their parents loved them well. That they love their family and would never do anything to harm them. Now imagine that foundation cracking, the illusion crumbling. It’s not just frightening; it’s devastating.
If he were to truly see things for what they are, I fear it might break him completely and push him over the edge. It’s well-documented that self-harm is not uncommon among people with personality disorders. Our fragile sense of self needs to be handled with such care, the kind of delicate precision only a skilled therapist can provide. I was fortunate to have had such therapists in my own journey, but the key difference was my readiness and willingness to work with them, to face my flaws and change my ways. That’s not something I can do for him—he has to come to this realization himself.
But for someone like him, coming to that realization could be devastating. For me, receiving a diagnosis was liberating. It was like a light turned on in the darkness: Oh, it has a name. It has experts, methods—this is amazing! I can heal. I felt an immense sense of relief. The diagnosis didn’t erase the harm I had caused to myself and others, but it gave me a path forward, an opportunity to make amends.
For him, though, I fear it wouldn’t feel freeing—it would feel like the complete collapse of his identity. Sometimes, it feels as though he’s living in a world of his own making, like The Wizard of Oz—powerful and in control. But if the curtain were pulled back, it would reveal a little, hurt boy hiding behind the illusion. I fear that, for him, there would be no dignity there, no humanity—just an empty space where authenticity should be.
And that’s the paradox: I want him to meet his authentic self, to connect with the damaged, wounded little boy inside, to heal, to find self-love, and, ultimately, to discover love for others.
But I don’t know if that’s even possible. What if, instead of healing, it’s unbearable for him to face his actions? What if exposing the truth only leads to more pain—pain that I don’t want to cause, no matter how much damage has been done to me or to our family? And that’s the heartbreaking paradox: the very thing that could lead to healing might feel unbearable. It might just be impossible.
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