Echoes That Still Hurt: When Family Fails to Show Up
- Peter Morande
- Aug 6
- 15 min read
*This post contains references to emotional abuse, medical trauma, and family conflict. Please take care as you read.
This post isn’t easy to write. It’s a raw and painful account of the emotional harm inflicted by some of the people who should’ve been part of my foundation: family. Over the past few months, amid medical appointments, job instability, and daily chronic pain, I’ve also been dealing with unexpected cruelty from relatives on both sides of my biological family. This isn't a “callout post” for pity. It’s a record. A truth-telling. A breaking of silence in a family that would prefer I suffer quietly.
Kristen: A Voice I Knew, Words I Didn’t Deserve
Kristen is my mom’s younger sister, but because we’re close in age, we were raised more like siblings than aunt and nephew. When I was 15, she stayed at our apartment while my mom and stepdad were away, I think it was an anniversary trip to Vegas. One night during that stay, Kristen gave me my first beer and cigarette. She also had a few friends over that evening, they were smoking weed while we hung out, and I remember us watching Zoolander. I didn’t touch the weed, but I did drink the beer and smoke the cigarette. It was one of those blurry moments that felt casual at the time, but it ended up carrying a weight I didn’t fully realize.
I went on to smoke more than regularly from age 19 to 28, and I drank heavily from my teens, especially after 19, until around age 26. Now, approaching 34, I don’t smoke at all and only drink maybe once every six months, if that.
We fought like siblings growing up, but in our 20s, when I wasn’t outwardly struggling, we reconnected and found some stability in our relationship.
And maybe that’s the problem. Because the moment I did struggle, openly and vulnerably, she couldn’t handle it.
After I posted about applying to 74 jobs in the last two months, and shared my GoFundMe to ask for help during a medical and financial crisis, Kristen didn’t reach out with compassion.
She didn’t call to check in.
She didn’t ask if I was okay.
She called to mock me and left a voicemail that was spiteful, belittling, and humiliating.
It started off with a sarcastic, almost theatrical tone:
“Oh, look at you… ‘burned all your bridges’ and now it’s everyone else’s fault…”
She said it like she was narrating some pitiful soap opera, like the fact that I’ve lost jobs or connections meant I deserved to be in pain.
And then she kept going, piling on with scorn:
“You’ve got excuses for everything. You’ve got health problems, right? So that’s everyone’s fault too?”
“You just sit around playing video games, and now you want everyone to feel sorry for you?”
“It’s fucking sad. You’re pathetic. Grow the fuck up.”
She mocked my disabilities.
She minimized my trauma.
She made fun of the way I cope, the fact that I use gaming as a connection point to stay socially present during isolation.
There was no concern, no pause, no care.
Just a steady flow of degradation, like she wanted to knock me down and make sure I stayed there.
It didn’t stop with the voicemail.
She sent follow-up texts telling me to “fuck off” and “go cry to someone else.”
And then she took it public, commenting on my post and writing things like:
“Everyone’s going through something. You’re not special.”
“You’re the reason your life is the way it is. Own it.”
As if asking for help is weakness.
As if speaking out is something to be ashamed of.
As if she had the right to decide how I navigate my own survival.
Let’s not sugarcoat it.
This was verbal and emotional abuse.
It was bullying, wrapped in sarcasm, soaked in insecurity, and weaponized against someone she knew was already vulnerable.
And yet, none of this surprised me.
Because this is someone who’s called me drunk in the middle of the night more times than I can count. Someone who has no filter, no accountability, and no interest in how her words land when she’s spiraling.
She didn’t get the response she wanted from a 5 AM call a few weeks ago, and instead of saying, “Hey, is everything okay?”
She went full scorched earth.
And my counselor was right:
“She’s projecting.”
She’s lashing out because I reminded her of something she doesn’t want to face in herself, maybe her own helplessness, her own failures, or the fact that I’m fighting to get better and she’s still stuck.
And I can feel sympathy for that.
It must be exhausting to live with that much venom in your bloodstream.
It must be lonely to see everyone else’s pain as a threat to your ego.
But I won’t let that be an excuse.
Because I deserve to ask for help without being abused.
I deserve to be seen, not shredded.
And if that makes me too “embarrassing” for her, then I’m proud to be.
Marissa: A Stranger Shaped by Silence, Entitlement, and Contempt
Marissa is not my half-sister. She’s Michael’s stepdaughter from his third and current marriage. She was raised in the home I was never invited into. While I grew up without my biological father, she had full access to him. Her loyalty to Michael and Manon doesn’t surprise me. But the venom she directed at me, without warning or any attempt to understand, was disturbing, abusive, and deeply revealing.
From an unknown number, she sent a barrage of hateful messages out of the blue. Her opening line?
“You know you’re kinda a huge piece of shit right?”
No greeting. No concern. Just instant character assassination. And it didn’t stop there:
“Don’t sell dad’s fucking jewelry he GIFTED you because you’re a petty little bitch who can’t handle that the reality is that you can’t get your broken ass head out of your own ass and want the world to revolve around you.”
This was the first time I had ever received a message from that number. I had no idea who it was; she had changed numbers, and I only had her old one saved. So I asked plainly:
“Sorry, who is this? My phone doesn’t have the number saved.”
Her reply?
“Figure it the fuck out dumbass. Use common deduction from the texts that I’ve sent.”
From the tone alone, erratic, unprovoked, and cruel, I already knew who it was. Sadly, it wasn’t surprising. It followed a familiar pattern: irrational outbursts, reactive behavior, and inherited contempt. This wasn’t the result of one bad day. It was the voice of years of pent-up judgment and unchecked emotional immaturity.
When I responded calmly and explained what I’ve been going through, physically, emotionally, and financially, she doubled down:
“Rot in hell. You block anyone who says something you don’t want to hear. So block me like the little bitch you are 🤣.”
This entire exchange started because I was trying to sell a few old watches, gifts from Michael that I no longer wear and need to part with in order to survive this financially critical time. She decided that doing so made me a “piece of shit.” Her morality and her sense of loyalty seem to center more around possessions than people.
This wasn’t about a watch. It wasn’t about family pride. It was about control. It was emotional aggression. It was a toxic need to punish someone for not living life the way she thinks they should.
She used her proximity to Michael and Manon as a weapon and a license to unload.
She wrote:
“Mom and dad have been going through SO MUCH and have done nothing but cared for you as much as you allow them to.”
Except they haven’t. Marissa may have experienced their care. I haven’t. I’ve been dismissed, gaslit, and treated like an outsider by both of them for years. Her comment showed how little she actually knows about what I’ve lived through, and how ready she was to judge from a distance.
When I told her I didn’t want to be contacted again, she fired back with:
“I can attest it is in fact Marissa, good process of elimination. Not a problem to not talk to you, a fucking delight. I wish nothing but success and for you to eat, just nowhere near my table.”
That’s not wit. That’s cruelty disguised as confidence. Performative detachment masking deep insecurity.
Let’s call it what it is.
This was psychological abuse.
This was a projection.
This was a tantrum disguised as moral superiority.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t show concern. She came in swinging and tried to make me feel worthless for surviving.
She used textbook toxic behaviors:
Dehumanization: “You’re a piece of shit.”
Deflection: Blaming me for Michael and Manon’s absence.
Entitlement: Acting like I owe her or her parents something.
Domination: Using insults to assert control.
My counselor put it in clear perspective:
“She’s not talking to you. She’s reacting to a version of you she created, and that version is easier to hate than her own reflection.”
And she’s not alone in that thinking.
This is what happens in a household where no one talks about their struggles. A place where vulnerability is punished and ego is protected at all costs.
If nothing else, this exchange taught me something important:
I dodged a bullet by not being raised by Michael and Manon.
This is what their influence produces: an adult who confuses cruelty with strength and control with love.
And if you want to understand just how emotionally immature this behavior really is, let’s not forget that years ago, Marissa faked a pregnancy online. She announced it on social media and soaked in the attention, only for it to be revealed later as a school project. At the time, I was grieving two miscarriages with my wife. Seeing her manipulate something so sacred was sickening. It was one of the first clear signs of how detached she was from empathy.
Let’s Talk About My “Broken Head” Because It’s Real
One of the most disgusting things Marissa said was:
“You can’t get your broken ass head out of your own ass…”
So let’s talk about that.
Because yes, I do have a broken head.
In 2007, when I was just sixteen years old, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. I fractured my skull from the center of my forehead all the way to the back of my crown. That fracture literally split my head open. It changed everything.
I’ve spent nearly half my life living with the effects of that injury. I was never properly guided through recovery. No one told me how to manage the symptoms that followed me into adulthood. It damaged my memory, focus, emotional regulation, and processing speed. These are not excuses. They are real, lifelong impacts.
So when someone like Marissa mocks my brain injury to win a petty argument, it says more about her than it ever could about me.
This wasn’t just mean.
It was ableist.
It was ignorant.
And it weaponized something I have spent years learning to live with.
Her insult was meant to dehumanize me. But it reminded me of how far I’ve come.
My traumatic brain injury didn’t destroy me. It reshaped me.
It forced me to survive, adapt, and keep going despite the odds.
My “broken” head has carried more than her cruelty ever will.
I’m not ashamed of my disability.
I’m not ashamed of needing help, setting boundaries, or walking away from people who treat pain like weakness.
But I am ashamed that we still allow people like her to speak this way. People who mock what they don’t understand and belittle what they haven’t lived.
So no, I won’t “get my broken ass head out of my ass.” As my head is clearly placed on my shoulders, which houses many other struggles and responsibilities.
This “broken head” is the reason I’m still here.
It’s the reason I can survive, speak clearly, and share my story. On my terms, not theirs.
And I’ll keep doing that.
Loudly.
Unapologetically.
Until there’s no room left for ignorance to hide.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. That means something. You’re why I keep doing this.
MaryAnn: When Love Is Conditional and Silence Speaks Loudest
My relationship with MaryAnn has been complicated, shaped more by silence and judgment than understanding. She is the mother of Michael (my biological father).
Growing up, I was close to her during my limited trips to Florida. I remember the smell of the air when I stepped outside, the cozy stillness of her house, and the puzzles we put together. She used to record episodes of Power Rangers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on VHS tapes as they aired and would mail them to me, something that meant the world to me as a kid. These memories mattered. They made me feel cared for, even across the miles.
But even then, there were moments that made me feel like I didn’t quite belong. When I was around 9 or 10, I asked to go home early from a Florida visit, just before I was supposed to stay at her house for a short period. That one decision seemed to leave a lasting grudge. It wasn’t overtly expressed, but the distance and subtle coolness that followed made it clear. That moment became a quiet dividing line in our relationship.
In recent years, the divide only widened. MaryAnn lives near both Michael and Manon, and she has remained closer to them than to me. While I’ve never expected people to take sides, I’ve always hoped they’d at least seek to understand. Instead, I’ve felt quietly dismissed, judged based on social media posts or assumptions, not on any direct conversations or real knowledge of what I’ve been living through. This mindset echoes what Manon once told me directly: “We don’t talk about our struggles.” And it seems MaryAnn has adopted that same belief, not in words, but in attitude.
Nothing made this clearer than her comment on a recent Facebook post I made, a deeply personal post shared on my 9th wedding anniversary (recently), during the middle of a severe migraine flare. I was in bed at around 4:30 PM, physically debilitated, emotionally drained, and just trying to ask for support via my GoFundMe. Instead of compassion, this is what she wrote:
“You know, Peter, you can go to the state of Vermont and ask for financial help with your bills. With all the jobs that you have had you can't tell me you didn't have any health insurance with any of them? All I see is all the things that you purchased in toys or how to make toys. These machines are not cheap. I suggest you go to the state of Vermont and ask for financial help with all your bills instead of going on Facebook and asking for money.”
To say this hurt would be an understatement. It was cold, condescending, and completely missed the point.
Yes, I’ve held multiple jobs since returning to Vermont, but I left each for legitimate reasons. I left Maine after being physically threatened and verbally abused at a guitar company where I worked. That experience took a massive toll on my mental health and shook my sense of safety at work and trust in general. Back in Vermont, the cycle continued. Job after job offered no benefits, unstable income, and no room to take care of my medical needs. One of those jobs (my last employer) ended due to my resignation for good cause based on wage violations and discrimination. I used all of my savings to help get by while being underpaid. Eventually, I filed a complaint with the Department of Labor and received a small settlement, but even that was chosen out of necessity and survival, not proper justice.
The majority of my 3D printers she referenced were purchased secondhand off Facebook Marketplace, during better financial times when I had some breathing room financially. At that time, I had recently assisted my mother. I had added her to my cellphone plan to help her get a new phone, and I bartered with her to help with the upfront costs of a portion of the printers in trade by covering a portion of her share of the bill. The other half of the cost for the printers was from money I had made by selling my older models (acquired by trading a significant portion of my retro video game collection I had had for years. These purchases and arrangements weren’t made carelessly. They were part of a mutual support system during a moment when I had a little more stability. But this is the kind of context you cannot get without having an actual conversation with someone. Passing judgment without knowing the whole story is not only unfair, it’s deeply damaging.
Those 3D printers now give me a creative outlet. They are not “toys.” They help me learn 3D modeling. They give me something to build, to focus on, a purpose, however small, in moments where my body fails me. They are one of the few ways I can still feel capable.
And now, they’re part of something bigger.
I recently launched a small online shop through my website, Broken But Resonant: Shop, where I’m offering 3D printed items made with care, purpose, and affordability in mind. The goal is simple: to provide helpful tools and thoughtful designs at a lower cost of production and handling, while building something sustainable that can support both myself and others.
One of the first products listed is a Pain Roller for Stress and Anxiety Reduction, a fully 3D printed stim and massage tool that you can find here. This design is offered under a Creative Commons license that allows for commercial use with proper attribution, which I’ve included in full, honoring the original creators and their intention to share it freely.
There is a small profit margin built into these items, just enough to cover materials, printer maintenance, shipping, seller fees, and the Broken But Resonant commitment: 5% of net profits from every sale from my shop will be donated to the Brain Injury Alliance of Vermont. This organization provides vital support, education, and advocacy for individuals living with brain injuries. Learn more or contribute directly at givebutter.com/biavt25. It reflects the very challenges I live with and advocate for through this platform.
More than anything, this shop is an extension of the mission behind Broken But Resonant. It’s a way to turn hardship into impact, to use the skills I’ve built through necessity and survival to create something meaningful. I would absolutely love to make this a viable career path. Every sale, every product, and every interaction is a small but powerful step toward that goal.
This isn’t just about making things.
It’s about making things that matter.
As for financial assistance, I have gone to the state. I’ve tried. I’ve applied for help and gotten nowhere. The system is slow, overburdened, and inaccessible to people like me who fall between the cracks. And when I do ask for help publicly, I use GoFundMe, a legitimate platform for people in crisis, not because it’s easy, but because I’m running out of options. I’m not scamming anyone. I’m not asking people who don’t want to give. I’m asking those who might care to understand and have the means to offer support.
What she doesn’t see, or maybe refuses to see, is what I’m living through right now. The physical pain is relentless. The migraines are daily, blinding, and disorienting. I’ve been barely eating, consumed by anxiety and fear. I’ve lost six pounds in the last week from stress and depression. I feel like I’m dying some days. I don’t say that lightly. I say it because it’s the truth.
Tomorrow (August 7th), at the time of writing this section, I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to evaluate the vascular malformation in my hand, an issue caused by two specific work injuries over the years. It affects my ability to lift, grip, and even type. The pain is sharp, constant, and draining. Even writing this blog post, sitting here, trying to process everything, is physically painful. My hand throbs from nerve pain and limited use. I feel dizzy, sick, like I’m going to pass out from the strain of trying to make my voice heard.
And somehow, amidst all of that, I still chose to be honest.
To open up.
To ask for help.
And that, not judgment, should be what matters most.
The Last Note Still Echoes
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Not just for reading, but for tuning in. For sitting with the dissonance, the tension, the unresolved chords that make up this story.
Because life, for many of us, isn’t a clean melody. It’s a complicated arrangement of pain, survival, and brief moments of harmony. And sometimes, the people who were supposed to play alongside us, the ones we trusted to keep tempo, end up going offbeat or try to drown us out entirely.
But I’m still here. Still playing. Still finding ways to turn the static into a signal.
That’s what Broken But Resonant is about. Not perfection. Not pretending. Just the raw, human sound of getting back up again and again and daring to create something meaningful out of the wreckage.
This platform began as a quiet idea, a whisper. Now, it is growing into a space with volume. A space where others who have felt discarded or misunderstood can find rhythm in their own stories. A space that blends advocacy, storytelling, and shared survival into a chorus that demands to be heard.
So if something in this post struck a chord with you, stay connected. Follow the site, explore the shop, share the story, or just know you’re part of this ongoing composition. Your voice matters. Your experience matters.
Even when the world tries to mute us, we still resonate.
And we always will.
-Peter
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Disclaimer:
The content of this post reflects my firsthand experiences and is supported by verifiable evidence, including text messages, voicemails, and publicly visible comments. I have intentionally chosen to use only first names and have omitted last names to protect personal privacy where possible.
This post is not intended to harass, defame, or threaten any individual. It is a factual account of events as I experienced them, shared for the purpose of truth-telling, healing, and advocacy. Under my First Amendment right to free speech, I am using this platform to speak openly about emotional abuse, trauma, and the real-life impact of toxic family dynamics.
Silence protects dysfunction. I will not remain silent about mine.
These are my words, my lived experiences, and my legal right to share.
This kind of truth-telling is exactly why Broken But Resonant exists. It is here to help others feel seen in their pain and to remind them they are not alone in the wreckage.
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