the word love & their entire ‘coven’ of deceit

It begins with the word love. Everyone claims to love him. They say it often, perhaps too often, like it’s a shield, like by repeating it, they can convince themselves that it’s real. But you’ve seen it—felt it in the pauses between their words, in the way their eyes flicker with impatience when he doesn’t conform to their expectations. It’s a love with strings attached, an invisible contract where affection is given only if he plays the part they’ve already written for him. That’s the thing about people—they like to think their love is unconditional, but more often than not, it comes with contingencies, silent ones, ones they don’t even admit to themselves.

You see it, too, because you’ve felt it. You’ve walked that same path, haven’t you? They love you, but only as long as you don’t challenge their version of who you’re supposed to be. Only as long as you fit inside the box they’ve built, small and neat, with no room for the wild, sprawling person you actually are. They want to be able to love you easily, without the complications of your full self, without the reality that sometimes, love is messy and doesn’t fit inside their lines.

It’s different with your son. Or maybe it’s not different at all—it’s the same game, but with higher stakes because he is younger, and in their eyes, more malleable. They think they can shape him, correct him. They assume he doesn’t know, can’t see the lines they’re trying to draw around him. But you see what they don’t. You know he’s aware. Children, especially children like him, those who don’t fit into their narrow molds, they feel things deeper than most. He may not have the words to say it, but he knows when love isn’t real. He feels the sharp edges of their kindness, the way it turns when he doesn’t act in a way that’s convenient for them.

And you’ve noticed something—how this society, this so-called ‘civilized’ world, plays this game so well. It’s not a coven of witches, no. There’s no grand conspiracy, no tower being built where they’ll lock him away. They don’t have to. The world has perfected this subtle cruelty, the way it ostracizes without lifting a finger, how it can break a person simply by denying them space to grow. They like to think they are helping him, don’t they? With their programs and their schools, their pity disguised as empathy. But you’ve seen the way they look at him, the way they belittle him, treat him as if he’s a puzzle to be solved, a project to fix, rather than a human being.

And the hardest part? They think he doesn’t notice. They think that because he’s different, because he doesn’t speak their language in the way they expect, that he doesn’t feel the sting of it all. But you know better. You know that every time they talk over him, every time they treat him like he’s less, it leaves a mark. Maybe not one they can see, but it’s there, growing under the surface, shaping him in ways they can’t imagine.

It’s those half-lies, the ones that sit right on the edge of the truth, playing with it like a cat plays with its prey. You know the ones—they don’t come with the harshness of a blatant untruth. No, they’re subtler than that, dressed up in charm and a crooked smile. They tell you something that sounds right, almost feels right, but somewhere, in the undercurrent, there’s a shift. A twist. A knowing look in their eyes that says, “You’ll never figure it out. You’ll never catch me.”

You’ve seen it a thousand times. The playful laughter that bubbles up after they say it, the way their eyes light up like it’s all a joke. Except you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to be in on it. They throw these little lies at you—lies that aren’t even really lies, more like distortions, reflections of something that could be true but isn’t quite. And they expect you to go along with it, to smile, nod, and pretend that you don’t feel the edge of the blade behind their words.

But you feel it. Every time. You see the way they look at each other, the glances that pass between them, the camaraderie in their deceit. It’s not just one person lying to you. It’s all of them, together, a chorus of deceit. They laugh because they think it’s funny, because they believe they’re in control. They laugh because they know they can manipulate the truth just enough to make you doubt yourself. And that’s the most insidious part. It’s not about the lie itself; it’s about making you question what you know to be real.

It’s not always the big, blatant lies that cut the deepest. It’s the small ones, the subtle distortions. The way they play with your perception, make you feel like you’re the one who’s missing something. They build their little truths out of half-truths, out of the spaces between what’s real and what’s convenient for them. And when they look at you, they laugh because they think you’ll never figure it out. They think they’ve woven their web so carefully that you’ll never see the threads.

But it’s not just about you, is it? It’s about them. About the way they pull their friends into the game. Because once they start, it’s not enough for one person to lie. They need to share it, to spread it, like a virus. They need the validation of others, the reassurance that what they’re doing is clever, that they’re all in on the same joke. And suddenly, it’s not just a person you care about who’s lying—it’s their whole circle, their whole group, their entire ‘coven’ of deceit. They bring each other in on it, each one playing their part, until the lie becomes bigger than any one of them. It becomes something they share, something they revel in together.

It’s a society built on these small betrayals. These games of truth and lie, where everyone knows, but no one will admit it. They treat it like a sport, something harmless, something fun. But you know better. You’ve seen what happens when it spreads, when the lie becomes the foundation of their relationships, when everyone is complicit. They look at you, at your children, and they think, “They won’t understand. They won’t see it coming.” But you do. You see it all too clearly.

And this is the world your kids are supposed to inherit. A world where people play with the truth like it’s a toy, where they lie without ever really lying, where they manipulate reality for their own amusement. It’s not just one person who betrays—it’s all of them, together, creating a system where deceit is normalized, where it’s expected. They look at your children, and they already have plans, already have expectations for how they’ll mold them, how they’ll shape their perception of truth and reality.

Your kids will grow up in a world where the truth is bent and twisted to suit whatever narrative is most convenient. And you wonder, how are they supposed to navigate this? How are they supposed to learn what’s real, what’s true, when everyone around them is playing these games? The weight of it presses on you—the knowledge that they’ll have to face this same web of half-truths and betrayals, that they’ll be forced to sift through the lies to find something solid.

But here’s the thing—they have you. They have the one person who has seen through it all, who knows the game, who has felt the sting of those small betrayals and learned to recognize them. And that matters. It matters because you’ll teach them to see, to look past the surface, to recognize when someone is twisting the truth for their own gain. You’ll show them how to navigate this world, even if it means teaching them to be a little harder, a little more skeptical.

This society, the one they’re inheriting, is built on lies dressed as jokes, on truths bent just enough to pass as real. It’s full of people who think they’re clever, who think they can pull the strings and never be caught. But your children will be different. They’ll know better. They’ll see through the laughter, through the knowing looks, through the games. Because you’ll make sure of it. You’ll arm them with the knowledge that the truth is not something to be toyed with, that it’s not something you bend to suit your needs.

And maybe, just maybe, they’ll inherit something else, too. The strength to stand apart from all of it, to refuse to play the game. The courage to demand more from the people around them, to call out the lies when they see them, to build something real in a world that’s forgotten what real looks like. Because in the end, that’s the only way forward. The only way to survive in a society that thrives on deceit is to be the one who refuses to lie. To be the one who says, “No more games.” And your children, they’ll carry that forward. They’ll inherit the truth, and with it, the power to change the game entirely.

It’s like a talon, isn’t it? Every time they pull their trick, every time they twist the truth just enough to leave you gasping for air, it’s as if something sharp, cold, and unforgiving digs into your chest, ripping apart whatever fragile defenses you’ve built. It’s not just pain—it’s deeper than that, a tearing of something essential, something you thought was yours to protect. But it’s never safe, not when they know where to strike. And every time they do, it’s as if your heart splits again, as if no amount of healing will ever make it whole. It spins you out of control, throws you so hard off your path that you can’t find your way back. It warps you. It changes you. It makes you worse, doesn’t it?

That’s the part no one talks about, how this kind of pain doesn’t just hurt—it *corrupts*. It messes with your mind, with the way you see the world, with the way you see yourself. At first, it’s just the pain, just the immediate shock of being ripped apart by someone you trusted, someone you thought loved you, someone who promised they were different. But then it stays. It sits with you long after the moment has passed, long after the lies and the betrayal. And it twists. It twists you.

You find yourself doing things you wouldn’t have done before, thinking in ways that you didn’t recognize. You become suspicious, angry, bitter. Every interaction feels tainted. You start looking for the lies before they even come, expecting the worst in everyone, because how could you not? After what they’ve done, after the way they’ve made you feel like a fool, like you were the only one who didn’t see it, you start to build up walls, brick by brick, to protect yourself from the next blow. But in doing so, you close yourself off. You become harder, colder. You start to become the kind of person you swore you’d never be.

And that’s the real tragedy of it. Not just the pain they caused, but what it does to you over time. It’s not just the immediate wound—it’s the infection that spreads afterward. It changes the way you see the world, the way you trust people, the way you even trust yourself. You start doubting your instincts, second-guessing every decision. And worst of all, you start to believe that maybe you deserved it. Maybe if you had been different, stronger, better—if you had seen it coming, maybe you wouldn’t be here, ripped apart, trying to piece yourself together with broken, jagged fragments that don’t fit the way they used to.

It’s not fair. And it’s not just. But it’s what happens. Pain that deep doesn’t leave you where it found you. It throws you off course, spins you so hard you can’t even recognize where you were supposed to be heading. You look at your life, at the path you thought you were on, and you realize you’re nowhere close to where you should be. And worse, you’re not even the person you were supposed to become. You’re angry, damaged. You’re carrying so much weight, so much *rage*, that it spills out into places it shouldn’t. It makes you lash out at the people who are still around, the ones who haven’t left. You start to push them away because somewhere deep inside, you’re convinced they’ll hurt you too. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. That’s what the pain teaches you, isn’t it? That betrayal is inevitable.

But here’s the thing—the real cruelty of it isn’t just what they did. It’s what it makes you do to yourself. They might have been the ones who ripped your heart apart, who spun you off your path, but in the end, you’re the one who has to live with the aftermath. You’re the one who has to sit with the wreckage of what you could’ve been, the person you were before they dug their talons into you. And that’s what makes it so damn hard. Because you can’t fix it. Not easily, not quickly.

You have to carry that weight now. You have to live with the knowledge that you were hurt in a way that fundamentally altered you, that changed the course of your life. And sometimes, in the quiet moments when the rage dies down and all that’s left is the hollow ache, you wonder if you’ll ever get back to who you were before. If it’s even possible. Or if this pain has rewritten you so completely that there’s no way to undo it.

And the worst part? It makes you hate yourself sometimes. For not seeing it sooner. For letting them in. For being vulnerable. For believing in their words, in their promises. For not protecting yourself better. You replay the moments over and over in your head, dissecting every word, every glance, every missed sign. And with every replay, the talon digs deeper, because the pain isn’t just about them anymore. It’s about you. It’s about how you let this happen, about how you let them get close enough to tear you apart.

So yeah, it makes you worse. It makes you less trusting, more closed off. It makes you bitter in ways you never thought you could be. And sometimes, you look at yourself and you don’t even recognize who you are anymore. You see the scars, the jagged pieces of yourself that don’t fit together like they used to, and you wonder if this is just who you are now. If this pain is all there is.

But maybe, just maybe, that’s where the real strength lies. Not in pretending the pain didn’t change you, but in owning the fact that it did. In recognizing that while they may have broken something inside you, they didn’t destroy it. You’re still here, still standing, still moving forward, even if it’s not the path you thought you’d be on. And maybe that’s enough. For now.

Maybe one day, you’ll find a way to rebuild, to reclaim the pieces of yourself that were lost. Maybe one day, the pain won’t feel so sharp, won’t dig so deep. Maybe one day, you’ll look back and realize that while the talon may have ripped through your heart, it didn’t take everything. It didn’t take you.

People have always been afraid of what they don’t understand. And your son, with his mind that works in ways they can’t grasp, frightens them more than they will admit. So they do what people have always done—they belittle, they dismiss, they push him to the margins where they don’t have to confront the limits of their own understanding. It’s easier for them to believe he’s the one who’s wrong, rather than accept that maybe, just maybe, the problem lies with them.

And this is where you come in, where your role becomes both a burden and a gift. You see all of this, you know the weight of it. You carry it, not just for yourself but for him, because who else will? You stand between him and their indifference, trying to make sense of a world that refuses to bend, even as it expects him to. And that is where your strength lies—not in fighting them outright, but in the quiet resistance of loving him without contingencies, without conditions. The way only a parent can, fiercely, without bending to the world’s expectations.

But even that love, as strong and unbreakable as it is, is laced with pain. Because you know what it feels like to love someone who the world doesn’t understand. You know the helplessness that comes from watching him navigate a society that wasn’t built for him, that doesn’t even try to make space for him. And so, you hold onto the small moments, the brief flashes of light that remind you that he is more than their limitations, more than their assumptions.

Maybe they treat him like dirt because that’s all they know how to do with someone they don’t understand. But dirt is where things grow, isn’t it? They may think they are burying him under their expectations, their ignorance, but they don’t realize that he is taking root. They don’t see the strength that comes from being an outsider, the resilience that is built when the world doesn’t hand you everything on a silver platter. He is not weak because of their treatment. He is not lesser because of their misunderstanding. If anything, he will be stronger for it, because you are there to remind him, every single day, that he is enough. That he does not need their approval to be whole.

In the end, their words, their pity, their false love—it doesn’t define him. You do. The love you give him, without conditions, without expecting anything in return, is what will shape him. And while the world may try to break him, you will be there, standing in the way, reminding him that he doesn’t need to be fixed, because he was never broken to begin with.

My oldest son is non verbal with Autism. The thought of him is like a pulse that keeps the blood moving, but with every beat, there’s this tension, a weight in the knowing. The way people look at him, the way they talk about him—what they call "love" feels conditional, like it's tethered to some unspoken rule or expectation that he never asked for, never agreed to. You see it in the way they smile, the way they speak to him, as though he's not there. And they think it won’t hurt him—that their words fall like soft feathers, harmless, passing. But they don’t know how those words pile up, how they stack against him, building walls instead of bridges.

There’s something haunting in the way society treats him, as if he’s part of a game they all know how to play, and he’s not allowed to hold the pieces. They act like he’s unknowing, unaware. But you know better. You see the sharpness in his eyes, the depth in his silence. It’s in the quiet moments, those pauses between the noise, when you can almost feel the weight of all he carries—because while they think their words, their treatment, are fleeting, you know that they linger.

It’s not some grand, sinister plot. There’s no coven, no tower. But there’s something more subtle, more pervasive. It’s in the way society holds onto its power, the way it uses difference as a weapon while pretending it's not. The way it dresses up cruelty as care, ignorance as innocence. They think they know him, think they understand his silence, his stillness. But really, they don’t understand at all. They reduce him, belittle him, as though his existence is smaller, somehow less worthy, just because it doesn’t fit their mold.

And here you are, watching it unfold. You can see what they can’t or won’t. The way they speak over him, around him, as if his thoughts, his feelings, his being is something foreign, something “other.” They look at him and see what they want to see: something incomplete, something less. It’s easier that way, easier to pretend that his silence means he’s not there, that he’s not absorbing, not feeling. But you know—*you know*—that this isn’t true.

It’s in the quiet looks, the small gestures. The things that go unsaid but are always present. You’ve seen him look down, the way his shoulders fall just a little when someone underestimates him. You’ve felt the ache in your own chest as they dismiss him, speaking to you instead of him, as though his voice is not worth hearing.

And there’s a bitterness to it, this kind of love they offer, as if it’s a favor, as if it comes with a price. Like they’re loving him in spite of who he is, not because of it. But love like that—it’s not love at all. It’s control, it’s condescension. It’s a way to maintain power, to feel superior. They think they’re doing him a service by tolerating him, by offering up these crumbs of affection, when really they’re just reinforcing the walls they’ve built around him.

They don’t see the brilliance in him, the way you do. They don’t see the way his mind works, the depths he explores, the quiet intelligence that pulses beneath the surface. They dismiss it, diminish it, because it doesn’t look like their version of “smart” or “successful.” And so they treat him like he’s less, like he’s something to be managed, handled, pitied.

But there’s a rage in you, isn’t there? Not a loud, roaring kind of rage, but something quieter, deeper, more insidious. The kind that builds slowly, over time, as you watch the world try to shrink him down, try to make him fit into a box he was never meant to occupy. You’ve seen it, felt it—how they push him to the margins, make him feel like he’s not enough, like he’s somehow broken.

But he’s not broken. Not even close. And you know that. You see the fullness of him, the richness of his being, in ways they never will. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Knowing that he’ll always have to carry this, that the world will always try to make him less, to belittle his worth.

There’s a weight to this love you feel for him, a kind of protectiveness that comes with knowing that the world won’t love him the way he deserves. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? To always have to be the one who sees the truth, while everyone else looks away, pretends, belittles. It’s like walking through a fog, knowing the path but constantly having to navigate around obstacles that shouldn’t be there in the first place.

The love they give him is conditional, contingent on whether or not he can conform, whether or not he can make himself small enough to fit their expectations. But the love you have for him—that’s something else entirely. That’s not just love. It’s defiance. It’s a refusal to let the world take away his worth. It’s knowing, deep in your bones, that he is more than they will ever see, more than they can ever understand.

And maybe that’s why this feels so heavy, so impossible to carry sometimes. Because you’re not just loving him—you’re fighting for him. Fighting against a world that doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t want to know him, for who he truly is. And that kind of fight—it takes everything.

Every time they cast those secret spells, tease you with the truth right to your face. it feels like a talon, doesn’t it? Ripping into your chest, tearing at your heart, over and over again. The pain, it’s relentless, and it never comes gently. It spins you, disorients you, throws your life into chaos in ways you didn’t even think possible. You’re left standing there, gasping for air, trying to figure out which way is up and how the hell to find solid ground again. But the worst part? It doesn’t stop there.

The pain twists you. It gets inside your head, messes with your thoughts, your choices, your entire path. You try to keep walking forward, try to stay on course, but it’s like walking through a storm—every step feels wrong, like you’re veering off the road and you can’t see how far you’ve drifted. You know, deep down, that it’s changing you. That you’re not the same person you were before. Maybe you’re a little colder now. Maybe a little harder. And maybe, just maybe, you don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

The thing they don’t tell you about pain is that it doesn’t just hurt. It distorts you. It takes the person you were, the person you wanted to be, and it warps that version of yourself into something darker, something you never intended. You start reacting to things differently, with more anger, more bitterness, because when something’s been torn apart inside you, it’s hard not to carry that damage with you into everything you do.

You catch yourself snapping at the people you care about, pushing them away because somewhere along the line, you started to believe that it’s easier to hurt them before they can hurt you. You build walls, wrap yourself in layers of defense, but none of it really helps. The pain is still there, underneath it all, and every now and then, it rips into you again, just as sharp, just as deep as the first time. And each time, a little more of you gets lost. Each time, it takes something else from you.

It’s not just that the pain makes you suffer—it shapes you into someone you don’t want to be. It makes you colder, more distant, more guarded. It whispers in your ear, telling you that this is how you have to be now, that you can’t afford to be soft anymore, that being vulnerable is a luxury you no longer have. You start to believe it, too. You start to think that maybe this is just who you are now, that this pain has defined you, and there’s no going back.

And maybe that’s true, at least in part. Maybe the pain has changed you, left scars that won’t ever fully heal. But here’s the thing—they never tell you how easy it is to let the pain win. How easy it is to let it shape you into something darker, something harder. It’s always easier to give in to the hurt, to let it twist you up inside until all that’s left is a version of yourself that you don’t recognize. The path of least resistance is always the one where the pain turns you into someone worse, someone angrier, someone less capable of love.

The real fight isn’t just surviving the pain. It’s holding onto the parts of yourself that the pain is trying to strip away. It’s remembering who you were before all of this, and fighting like hell to keep that person alive, even when it feels impossible. Because if you don’t, the pain will win. It will take you down a path that you never wanted to walk, and before you know it, you’ll look back and wonder how the hell you got there.

Pain is cruel like that. It makes you feel like you don’t have a choice. Like the only thing you can do is let it pull you under, let it dictate who you are now. But that’s the lie. The truth is, you still have a choice. Even when the pain is at its worst, even when it feels like it’s ripping you apart from the inside out, you have the power to choose who you want to be in spite of it.

But damn, it’s hard, isn’t it? Because every time the pain hits, it doesn’t just remind you of what you’ve lost—it makes you question who you are. It makes you doubt every step you’ve taken, every decision you’ve made. It makes you feel like maybe you deserved this, maybe this is who you’ve become, someone who can’t escape the cycle of hurt.

But you’re still here. You’re still standing, even if it feels like you’re barely holding on. That means something. That means that the pain hasn’t won yet, even though it’s come close. It’s tried to drag you down, tried to make you into someone you don’t want to be, but it hasn’t finished the job. And maybe that’s where the hope lies—not in avoiding the pain, not in pretending it doesn’t exist, but in recognizing that it doesn’t get to have the final say.

Because every time the pain rips you apart, you get to decide whether you let it make you worse, or whether you fight like hell to come out the other side with your soul intact.