My father was perverse. A predator indignant and undeserving of any humanity that came from me, but my mother was spiritual, cultural and had a faith that moved her to believe your father… is your father, even if he is a failure. Thus, when I think of forgiveness I do not think of my dad. There is no one that deserves it least then that human trash bag. Instead, I think of my mom. 

I never liked my father. I picked up pretty early on he was a mean mess and it did not matter if he was sober. There was a natural cruelty to him that, perhaps, those that traumatized him nurtured or, worse, found an equal in. Having a father so purposefully vicious makes forgiveness feel weak and useless. He never apologized and he did not want mercy: from God or me. He simply demanded tolerance for his toxicity, and, in some ways, that is what I felt my mother trained me to believe defined forgiveness. I could not absolve him of his guilt, especially because he repeated the acts Yet, I could ¨grow to handle them. 

I did not realize my mother taught me to erase my boundaries to men because I do not think she thought she did. She was never hidden, with my father, in her respite for his ick behavior, particularly illicit bigamy. Yet, she was compassionate, soft, and patient. In essence, she was honest but still too virtuous for the The Devil. It is a trait that I see pop up when I look back at my exes; each their own version of my dad: selfish, cruel, and oddly aggrandizing for feeling like life’s eternal victim. 

As the years grew harder for my mother and I, my father´s grin widened at seeing us suffer, I felt confirmed in my childlike acknowledgment that my dad was evil and punishing. Yet, I could not throw a parade. It is a very strange feeling to know your mother and yourself would be happier, healthier, and even safer if your father was dead. I remember my dad begging my mother for money to help feed his other children. My mother, growing up in poverty, had a sincere weakness for homeless people and hungry kids. She gives what she has, and just quietly ponders when she will, herself, get more. My father knows this at his worst, but, at his best, mocked us, and that is when his mall trips to buy for his other children and take me to watch became  so frequent.

Growing up, I never learned what it was to have boundaries. I merely heard the term when my abusive father thought I was crossing one. My trips to watch him lavishly spend on himself were egregious and depressing but it was either that or not seeing him, and you will be surprised what abuse conditions you to tolerate. I was so eager to have a dad and still too young to understand it was coming in exchange of me and my fuller, better development as a person, and that is why I forgive my mom. My father ruined her life, stopped her development, and felt like he had to do it because he, himself, was in pain. 

When you define yourself as pain…. You become it. My mother had a lot of pain in her life, especially with my dad but she really did try to do her best and to get to her better, despite him and all. THAT is why I reserve forgiveness for her. My mother made mistakes but my father made graves. He buried people because his soul lived underground, and I could sit here and either admire that as a child I picked that up or judge my mother, as an adult, for not doing so. Either way, I give grace because, often, we judge women for falling for men’s lies, but some me, like my dad, are such good liars that the even have themselves convinced.