My heart isn’t necessarily hardened against these sparse and half-hazard efforts, but it isn’t exactly open to them either. My heart still hurts, remembers.

My dad has been a tyrant, a monster, a controlling prick, a maniacal self-esteem crushing abuser. I’ll never forget how he treated- treats- my mother. I’ll never forget growing up feeling unwanted for bringing them both to that sacrificial altar. I’ll never forget the threats, the bullying, the name calling, the upside down pants around the ankles spankings with the leather belt or the spanking on roller skates that led to my falling on the lawnmower and cutting both my shins, the spitting in my face, the capitalizing on my every weakness until I was mentally and emotionally broken.  I’ll never forget how he suddenly subdued any lingering positive attention or encouragement when I turned 13, how he withheld his love.

His behavior has shaped and misshaped me in countless ways and echoes still. He may now say “I love you,” but he is still unable to say he’s proud of me- for who I’ve become and for all I’ve accomplished. In thinking of it, I break inside all over again.

So even though he’s now reaching out in positive ways, I can’t separate the version of the father I had growing up from the mellowed version of today. The adult I’ve become wants vindication for the little girl who had no advocate, no one to intervene on her behalf. The idea of not holding him accountable breaks me too.

And even yet, he’s my dad. The only one I have. What am I to do with that now?

Our phone conversation last night began innocuously enough. How’s work, what did you do this weekend, how was the movie, let’s plan Mother’s Day, and the like. She went on to share her annoyance after attending my cousin’s birthday party earlier that day. Annoyance at feeling obligated to spend time with her family- her brother and sister and their spouses, her parents, her other nieces and nephews. Annoyance at being smothered and stifled and forced to “get with the program” after spending the past 27 years living four to 19 hours away from all of them. Now, suddenly she and my dad are back in the very town they grew up in, the same neighborhood even, and it’s weird. While listening, I thought I’d sympathize (empathize) with her, offer my apologies for how very annoying that must be.

I regret that now.

She acknowledged that “Yes, it IS weird,” we talked a bit more about it, and then we hung up. I got ready for bed in anticipation of another week working the equivalent of three jobs. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and stressed. Having finally done laundry after a month, I was just thinking what a blessing it was going to be to get dressed in the morning and not have to dig through the laundry bin for a “clean enough” pair of jeans when the phone rang again. She must have forgotten to tell me something, I naively thought.

No. Instead, my mom was calling me back to launch what amounted to the world’s most ironic argument. She informed me that she was “bothered” and “hurt” by my words. What words were those, I wondered. She threw out accusations while I sat stunned into silence; things like “I feel like a throw-away mother,” “you won’t let me call you every day or even every other day anymore,” “I never see you and you’re so close,” and “you’re cutting me out of your life.” She had the audacity to punctuate her claims by using my boyfriend as a catalyst for my apparent bad behavior, saying “you’re dating someone who doesn’t care about family and now you’re…”

And that’s when I cut her off. I love my mother, but hell no. While I had hitherto been preparing to decline the invitation to fight and hang up the phone, instead I got mad and retaliated like the truly resentful 29 year old daughter that I am.

“None of this has anything to do with him- I don’t want you calling all the time because I’m busy with work and feeling overwhelmed and can’t talk. And when I’m not at work I’m trying to relax, trying to still have a social life, trying to get things done like the dishes or the laundry. I’m trying to EAT an actual meal or SLEEP without having to knock myself out with medication. And as far as not seeing me very often, just because your life has changed and brought you into closer geographic proximity doesn’t mean that my life has changed to suddenly accommodate your nearness or availability.”

“But you kids are all that I have and now I feel like I’m losing you,” she sobbed. “I don’t have anything else in my life- our house is in foreclosure; I have no job, no friends, no….”

“That’s all you have. Really? Your adult children,” I quipped.

“Well, what else is there? What do you think I have that I don’t?” she shot back. And with that, we were off and running.

“It’s not my job to point out what you have to be happy about; that’s your job and if you can’t figure it out on your own, then you need to find a therapist to help you,” I flung at her. And I didn’t stop there. “Also, telling me that my brothers and I are your only happiness doesn’t actually make me feel good. It puts a lot of pressure on me to make and keep you happy and sane and that’s not okay. It’s an inappropriate expectation and it’s a refusal to acknowledge and adhere to healthy parent/ child boundaries.”

Four years of sessions with my own therapist were then met with her “go to” maneuver: martyrdom.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I didn’t mean to put pressure on you or make you upset. I’m not trying to be such a BAD mother…”

“You need help.” I repeated it five times as she tried to bar my words from entering her consciousness. “You’re depressed and unhappy with everything in your life and you’re pinning it on your daughter to make you feel better. I can’t fix your life for you.”

I’m fed up with these mind games and manipulations. I’m fed up with my parents and their problems and their refusal to act like adults, like parents, and be responsible for their own problems and feelings. I’m fed up with being my family’s scapegoat and outlet for all of their personal emotional turmoil. I. Am. Fed. Up.

And yet, while I’m unsurprised by my mother’s codependence, while I can anticipate her words and actions and understand what’s really going on beneath them; I am still deeply hurt and disappointed by her inability to act like the parent she ought to be. I am still hurt and disappointed that when I voice my own needs I am met with her victim mentality and guilt trips.

In response, she chose to cry.

Before the phone call ended, I questioned what she hoped to gain from the conversation. I’m not going to change, in fact cannot change, anything about my circumstances. I do not want, nor am I in a position, to sit on the phone for an hour each night while she tells me about what food she did or did not eat that day. And I cannot drop what I am doing to visit her for one to two weekends a month simply because she lives two hours away.

She may have been looking to be consoled and reassured, but unfortunately for her she came to the wrong person on the wrong day. I’m still a reliable “good” daughter, but I’m getting better at being a “good” individual.

But I knew this moment would come, knew there was no avoiding it. I told myself not to lie when it did. I owed it to myself, I thought, to be honest about who I am- both strong and weak, good and bad. I made a promise that if a man wanted to know me- to know my body- then he’d know this past as well. If he asked.

With that moment here, I hesitated. Could I do it? I laid there debating, every muscle straining, fighting to pretend it wasn’t. Clearing my throat, and with a lightness I did not feel, I admitted, “They’re scars.” I didn’t believe it would be that easy, though I held my breath.

“Yeah, baby, but how’d you get them?” he persisted.

In the stillness that followed, I heard a hapless bird begin to chirp outside the window, heard his dog paw at the bedroom door to be let out. Inside, my mind was screaming, panicking: what to do, what to say. What would this man think of me if I told him what I’d done? What other questions would it lead to? Would we ever lay so contentedly in bed again?

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered and tucked me under his chin. He didn’t ask why. He already knew. “Mine go the other way.”

I wanted to look at him then, wanted to see the recognition in his eyes, the awareness of how a person can be brought to the brink. Wanted to feel the  shared knowledge that hurts can heal, but scars take longer, maybe never go away completely. But I didn’t. And he didn’t look at me.

We stayed like that for a long time, silently watching the morning light cast shadows all about us, each remembering what had come before. Detached. Connected. As bared as could be. And we understood one another perfectly.