My mother epitomized the grudge-bearing harpy found in fables. While she couldn’t fly, she had an unnatural ability to sweep in when you really, really didn’t want her around. She’d rush in, her cheeks flushed with anger, accuse me of some sin, then threaten to have my father beat me.

            I knew she didn’t love me. I witnessed her love for my older brother and younger sister, but never me. Sometimes I yearned for love, but as I grew older, my heart became encased in steel. That protective barrier helped me stand alone, helped me resist the self-hate that threatened to pull me under.

            It’s one thing to feel unloved: it’s another when you hear the words, that not only are you not loved, but you are also unlovable.

            I tried not to hate my family. Sometimes my older brother was a friend, but sometimes he physically hurt me. I never knew which version of him would present itself. My younger sister was a different kind of challenge.

I didn’t love her, even when she was quite small. I blamed my mother for that, as she foisted the care of my sister off on me, a seven-year-old, insecure child. I was expected to play with her, even when, after she could talk, she hurt me. She’d kick me and then tell our parents that I’d kicked her. She’d smile when I was beaten.

When I left for college, I enrolled in the same university as my brother. That wasn’t my choice, but the only one permitted. It turned out okay. He joined a fraternity, and so did I! The boys began a Little Sister chapter, just for me. I did everything with them, including trips to Disneyland and parties. I dated one of the guys.

When my brother’s best friend expressed an interest in me, my brother forced me to spend time with Joe. Joe wasn’t nice. Joe wanted to feel my breasts. Joe tried to “bed” me, but I silently fought him off. And then later, Joe raped me.

Because my father had accused me of being a whore at fourteen, when I’d shortened my hair, I knew what whoring was. I’d never kissed a boy, or held hands with a boy, or wanted to, so that label felt like a condemnation.

When I told my family that Joe had raped me, I thought they’d sympathize, hate Joe, ban Joe from our family. They didn’t. Instead, they accused me of imagining that a boy would ever want me that way.

I’ve never forgiven Joe. If I saw him, recognized him, I’d run away rather than throw darts. I admire women who confront their abusers. The problem is, who would I confront?

My dad beat with his fists and belt. My mother abused me with name-calling and deprivation of love. My brother pinched and kicked me. My sister taunted me. Joe raped me.

I never forgave my parents. Even as their minds failed, I wasn’t the daughter they wanted. I wasn’t worth loving, only using. They asked me to babysit my dad. They demanded I drive my mother to the store. They never said thanks or expressed love.

My brother, though, changed. He mellowed out after he retired. We speak now and then, and it’s always respectful. I can forgive him. He did to me what our father did to him: physically and mentally abuse.

I tried to forgive my sister, but she’s too much like my mom. She carries grudges like glue. They are stuck to her shoulders and heart, and they never break free. She rehashes things I did fifty years ago. She blames me for things I never did, or at least can’t remember doing. She’s never apologized for the troubles she caused me, or for the hurtful things she said.

I like to think that someday I can forgive her. Recently I’ve been adding her to my prayers. Perhaps that will help.

A friend recently told me that I carry grudges. That shook me. I denied it, of course, but she got me thinking: have I let go of the hurts done to me?

Answering honestly, in most cases, yes. In rare cases, no.

Example: I apparently offended a choir member. I am not sure when or how, but when she sees me, she glowers at me. I’ve tried smiling at her, thanking her for her help, and speaking softly to her, but nothing seems to be working.

I shrugged it off, saying to myself that the relationship can never be healed. Last week I needed her help. I thanked her. She smiled!

I can forgive her for all the angry looks if she can forgive me for whatever I did to her.

Forgiveness is tough. A person can choose to pile grudges on their backs and walk around, bent over from the weight. Or they can choose to forgive and move forward.

I’m trying to move forward.

Forgiveness is tough, but I’m determined to accept my faults, their faults, and attempt to walk with them as they accompany me.