I met my stepmom when I was 5. A hard, unnecessary slap to my face rocked my world, and, of course, our relationship.
By twelve, I was no longer physically afraid of her, and by seventeen I had joined the Air Force, in large part to sever her influence into my world.
I remained close to my dad, which necessitated interaction with her. I was civil, but maintained an emotional distance. We got along.
It wasn't until thirty that I began to understand the relationship.
"Jeff, why are you here?"
"Well, I keep wanting THIS in relationships, and I keep getting something else. I've tried everything I know. And I keep getting that something else."
"Tell me about your parents, Jeff."
"Oh, I'm close to my dad, but never got along with my mom. But it's water under the bridge. It was long ago. I'm over it."
"Well, why don't you write about it. And we'll talk next week."
"Sure."
"Luann, when I was writing about my parents, I got really mad."
"See, there's stuff there. Unresolved stuff."
Over the next year or so, I came to understand, and I came to forgive her. But I still didn't necessarily like her much, and I certainly didn't trust her - there was no way I would allow myself to be vulnerable to her. We can forgive, but it's hard and perhaps unwise to forget.