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Let the Healing begin

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At 60, I’m finally facing the pain I’ve carried for decades. It’s a heavy load, one I was taught to ignore because my emotions didn’t matter. “Just let it go,” they said. “Others matter more.” In my family of four, I was the “fish child”—the odd one out, swimming in a current of expectations and unspoken rules, never quite fitting in. My mother’s death left a void, and my father’s grief turned the holidays, once a time of warmth, into a season of extra chores and shared misery. If he hated the holidays, we had to hate them too. Growing up, I learned to bury my feelings. My father’s selfishness—his insistence that we bear his pain—came with emotional and sometimes physical abuse. I was taught that tolerating this was the price of connection, that love meant enduring. But it didn’t. It left me disconnected, not just from him but from myself. Now, I’m unlearning those lessons. My emotions do matter. I don’t have to accept abuse to feel close to another human soul. This blog is my act of healing—a space to name the pain, to honor the fish child who deserved better, and to reach out to others who’ve lived similar stories. If you’ve ever felt invisible in your family, told to “let it go” while your heart ached, know this: you’re not alone. Your pain is real, and it’s okay to feel it. Healing starts with seeing yourself, with refusing to carry the weight of someone else’s misery. I’m 60, and I’m finally free to feel. To those reading this, I hope my words help you take that first step toward your own freedom. You don’t have to tolerate abuse to be loved. You are enough, just as you are. MeganR Pronounced Me-Goner as me gone from the abuse and living a happy life.

A Tale Of Sibling Rivalry or a Form of Bullying?

Growing Up with Vivian: A Tale of Sibling Spying and Sneaky Tactics

Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.com

Siblings—they can be your best friends or your biggest headaches, sometimes both in the same day! My sister, Vivian Ligas Normandeau, was definitely a handful growing up. From the time she was 10 or 11, she had a knack for stirring up trouble, and I often found myself caught in her schemes.

Back then, Vivian had a habit of getting into trouble with our dad—maybe she’d sneak extra cookies or skip her chores, earning herself a punishment like being grounded or losing TV time. But instead of just taking her lumps, she’d turn her attention to me. She’d spy on me, catching me in small slip-ups like sneaking a late-night snack, and then she’d lay down the law: I had to accept the exact same punishment she got, or she’d tell Dad. I fell for it twice, agreeing to her terms out of fear of Dad’s reaction. But by the third time, I realized she didn’t have the power she pretended to have. I started breaking away, refusing to play her game, and that’s when things got interesting.

Vivian didn’t stop spying, though. She kept at it well into high school, but her tactics got bolder. She’d barge into my room without knocking, probably hoping to catch me in various stages of undress to embarrass me or gain some leverage. I wasn’t having it—I started locking my door, which drove her up the wall. She’d get so mad, but I wasn’t about to let her invade my space like that.

You’d think that would’ve made her back off, but Vivian had other tricks up her sleeve. She shifted from spying to more subtle forms of bullying, specifically undermining me. She’d make snide comments in front of others, downplaying my achievements or poking at my insecurities. It wasn’t about making up stories but more about chipping away at my confidence—like “forgetting” to pass on important messages from our parents or twisting my words to make me look bad in small ways. It was exhausting, but it taught me a lot about setting boundaries and standing up for myself.

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