When We Go No Contact… and Still Feel Crushed

A response to those who don’t quite get it

Hi friends,

This post is inspired by a comment I received from one of you. Specifically, from someone named Gillian. And before I go on, I want to say this clearly: this isn’t about Gillian. I get comments like this regularly. It could’ve been Bob or Barbara or Dave. But this time, it was Gillian, and I want to use her comment as a springboard to talk about something that so many of us—especially scapegoated adult children—struggle with.

Here’s what she said:

“Whoa. Do you realize how you have just completely contradicted yourself? You tell close family you need space, and then when they honor that request, you complain. No sense at all. People aren’t mind readers. You need to communicate exactly what it is that you do want.”

Let’s talk about that.

What Is a Scapegoat, and Why Does It Matter?

The name of this blog—and my channel—is The Scapegoat Club for a reason.

In many narcissistic or abusive families, one child is cast in the role of the scapegoat. They're the emotional dumping ground. They're blamed, bullied, singled out, and often made the “problem” to distract from the dysfunction in the system.

And the abuse? It’s rarely just emotional. It can be physical, sexual, financial, verbal, legal—you name it. And the scars? Oh, they’re real. Anxiety, depression, PTSD, relationship struggles, and deep confusion about what our needs even are.

So when someone says, “You just need to clearly communicate your needs,” I hear that... and I also flinch a little. Because when you've spent your whole life being punished for having needs, let alone expressing them, “clearly communicating” doesn’t feel simple. It feels impossible.

Let’s Talk About “Honoring” a Request for No Contact

Gillian used the phrase “they honor your request for space.” And I get that, semantically. But I have a real issue with the word honour in this context. We don’t typically say someone “honoured” our request to stop abusing us. And, honestly, it turns my stomach a little to use the words "honour" and "abuse" in the same sentence.

When a scapegoat finally says, “I need space” or “I’m going no contact,” we’re often doing something terrifying. Not selfish. Not impulsive. Terrifying. We’re setting boundaries with people who have repeatedly shown us that our boundaries are unacceptable. We’re risking everything.

And often, that final request—the one that gets interpreted as “ghosting” or “being dramatic”—is actually our last-ditch effort. It’s a final test. It’s:

“Are you really willing to lose me over this?”

And when we’re met with silence? When no one calls, no one knocks, no one writes?

Yeah. That hurts. Even if it’s not surprising.

Are you really willing to lose me?

This Isn’t Just About Me

Maybe Gillian wasn’t addressing me personally. Maybe she thought I didn’t “qualify” as a scapegoat. That’s fine. She’s not alone in that opinion.

But I want to say something clearly: I speak for myself and for many others who have lived through this same hell. I speak as a spokesperson of sorts (self-appointed, I’ll admit) for those of us who were harmed, confused, gaslit, and discarded by our own families.

This isn’t about getting “too emotional” or “failing to communicate.” This is about the long-term effects of trauma bonding and emotional abuse.

The Myth of Perfect Communication

Let me be blunt: expecting people who’ve survived decades of family abuse to suddenly, clearly, and calmly articulate their needs to the very people who caused that abuse?

That’s fantasy.

It’s not that we don’t want to communicate. It’s that we’ve been taught not to. Conditioned not to. Punished when we did.

Many of us didn’t even know we had needs until our 30s, 40s, or beyond. And when we finally try to express them, it often sounds messy. It is messy.

But that mess doesn’t mean we’re doing it wrong.

The Double Bind of Estrangement

It’s funny—people will tell us we’re childish and selfish for walking away. But they’ll also tell us we’re manipulative or attention-seeking if we say we’re going to walk away and then feel sad when no one stops us.

So which is it?

Are we monsters for cutting people off? Or are we fools for hoping someone might, just maybe, reach out and say, “Please don’t go”?

Maybe the truth is: we’re human. And it hurts.

The Crushing Silence After No Contact

This is what I want to leave you with.

When we say “I can’t do this anymore,” we aren’t just setting a boundary. We’re often whispering a final plea:

“I am on the edge. This is breaking me. Please show me that I matter.”

And when the answer is silence?

Yeah, we’re crushed.

Even if we know logically that silence was always coming. Even if we expected it.

Because somewhere deep inside, we still hoped.

In Closing: To Gillian, and Everyone Like Her

Thank you. Genuinely. Your comment helped me unpack something important—something that needed to be said.

If you still think I’m just being unclear, or overly emotional, or difficult, that’s okay.

But I hope this post gives you a new lens. I hope it helps you see the bigger picture. And if not? That’s okay too.

To my everyone else: if you’re navigating estrangement, or trauma, or the mess of going no contact, please know—you’re not alone. You don’t have to do it perfectly. You don’t have to explain yourself to everyone. And you sure as hell don’t need to be judged for the courage it takes to walk away from harm.

From my heart to yours, take care of yourself.

Until next time,

much love,

Chess

xxx