The Accidental Confidant

You know what’s the worst idea ever? Parents trying to be their kid’s best friend. Trust me, I would know. I spent over 20 years as my father’s consigliere—his right-hand person, like in the mob, but with way more emotional baggage and way less intrigue. You’d think being privy to all your parents’ deepest secrets would make you wise beyond your years. It doesn’t. It just makes you a teenager who knows too much about adult problems, and wonders why you’re not getting paid like an actual therapist.

Let’s be real: this “best-friend parenting” thing is an epic fail. Parents are supposed to raise kids, not make them their unpaid emotional support. You know what it actually does? It gives you a front-row seat to the chaos without even the courtesy of popcorn. And the view? Not pretty. I figured out my parents were just regular, flawed humans at a very young age. That’s a hard pill to swallow when you’re still a kid who thinks people on TV are actually magic.

Don’t get me wrong, I had awesome parents. Compared to the dark stories my friends shared, my childhood was a fairy tale. No violence, no creepy approaches—just your standard suburban neuroses and dysfunctional communication. But the dynamics were always crystal clear. My parents had my sister when they were “mature,” but when they had me, they were basically kids themselves—fumbling through life and making it up as they went along. I was their test baby (which is the role of all first borns)—the prototype, the one they tried all their parenting theories on. Lucky me.

It wasn’t until I turned sixteen that things really started to fall apart. My parents’ marriage had been held together with duct tape and the occasional date night for years, but then the whole thing just… collapsed. I didn’t see it coming; I was too busy trying to keep the peace. The divorce was “not amicable,” which translates to: “We can’t stand each other, but we’ll try not to traumatize the kids even more.”

By then, I was practically begging for them to just end their “Operation Happy Family.” I’d spent years refereeing their fights and pretending not to hear them whispering about separation. When the divorce finally came, I should’ve felt relieved. But instead, it felt like being left in a burning building while my parents calmly walked out the back door. I was just sixteen, suddenly holding the emotional meltdown of two grown-ups, and trying to look after my eight-year-younger sister, who was blissfully unaware of the chaos.

Here’s the thing: I have no memory of the day my dad left. None. It’s a total blank. You’d think a moment like that would be seared into my brain, but it’s like my mind decided to skip it altogether. Maybe I just hit the mental delete button because my emotional hard drive was full.

I’ve tried talking to my parents about it, but any conversation about the past becomes an emotional landmine. It’s like they compete in the Misery Olympics. "Well, I had to listen to complaints and babysit whenever my career was on the line!” “Oh yeah? I had to learn to cook for myself!” And I’m just standing there, thinking, “Anyone remember the kid in the middle of all this? No? Just me? Cool.”

It’s not that I’m resentful. Okay, maybe I am. But mostly, I’m tired. Tired of being the emotional dumping ground for two people who should know better. I mean, I’m nearly 40 now. I can barely summon the energy to argue about it anymore. At some point, I just accepted they’d never acknowledge the role I played. I was their rock, their unpaid emotional caretaker. But as long as they could offload their baggage onto me, they didn’t notice the cost.

That’s why I don’t trust easily. I’ve been a therapist since childhood, and I’ve learned that most people don’t want help—they just want someone to listen while they vent. Then they walk away feeling better while I’m left holding the bag of their problems. So I keep people at arm’s length—not because I’m cynical (well, maybe a little), but because I’ve seen how quickly people can dump their issues without a second thought.

As for coping mechanisms… yeah, I’ve got a few. Weed helps. And yes, I know that sounds stereotypical, but it’s either that or meditation—and trust me, it’s hard to clear your mind when it’s running at 200 miles an hour. And sure, I’m carrying some extra pounds, but who isn’t? At least I’m not drowning my sorrows in tequila shots every night. So there’s that.

My parents know I smoke, but the only one who’s ever brought it up is my dad—the “recovering alcoholic.” It’s easier for him to assume I’m “just going through a phase” than to face the reasons why I smoke in the first place. After all, I’ve been “going through a phase” for about 25 years, so I’m sure it’ll pass any day now.

So, where does that leave me? I’d like to think I’m better off for the insight I’ve gained. But maybe I’m just cynical. Sometimes I envy my younger sister. She got the more stable version of our parents—the ones who had learned from all their mistakes with me. She’s blissfully unaware of the emotional chaos that came before her time. She gets to see our parents as “epic” and “loving,” while I remember them as human—flawed, selfish, but trying their best. It’s not a bad thing, just a different reality. We grew up in the same house but in entirely different worlds.

That’s why, even now, I’m still the mediator. When my parents argue, or my sister’s upset because Dad forgot her birthday (again), I’m the one smoothing things over. It’s second nature at this point. Maybe I was never meant to be a “normal” kid. Maybe I was always meant to be the accidental confidant, the secret-keeper, the one who knows all the stories no one else talks about. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a strange comfort in that.

At the end of the day, I’ve seen it all. I know the truth about my family—not the fairy tale version they tell themselves, but the real one. The one with all the messy details and unspoken tensions. And you know what? Knowing the truth, as unflattering as it is, is better than believing in the story they tell each other.

So yeah, I don’t trust easily. I smoke too much weed, and I carry some extra weight. But I’ve made my peace with it. After all, if I could survive being my parents’ secret-keeper for two decades, I can handle a little baggage.