started to realize that my issues with men aren't only rooted in my uncle's abuse; these are also issues with my father. 

My mother seemed to revel in the fact that she and dad had a special bond and that made me come in second. The message seemed to be that being a daughter wasn't as meaningful as their sexual bond. If there was a conflict, her side was taken. I remember as an adult, mother had taken me to the beach one time. I had thought she was going to drop me off at my apartment, about 90 miles away. But she stopped at her house and my dad insisted that I spend the night because mother shouldn't have to drive anymore and my husband would have to pick me up the next day.  My driving phobia and inability to pass the road test meant there was no choice. I was stuck in the nightmare hoarded house again. I just cried and cried in my brother's room because they'd immediately turned my old room into an inaccessible junk room about a week after I moved out. This kind of thing happened a lot. 

I also think my dad never forgave me for an incident after the house fire. So, my dad was hoarding newspapers near the floor heater in the hallway for years. My mother also set up her ironing station and piles of clothes by the heater, almost directly across from my room. This was '93 and I was 15. I was sleeping late on a day in January; exempt from an exam. My brother had left pants to dry on the floor heater, but left them there when he found something else to wear. The whole mess caught fire. I woke up screaming because my arm started to burn from the heat in the hall. I had to climb out the window. I remember them comforting my brother later that day, as he remembered that he may have started the fire; not me who was in the fire. I felt a little resentment. 

During the clean up, the workers found that I'd written "I hate Dad" on the bottom of my dresser. That had happened years ago. They asked if there was abuse going on; but I told them it was during a minor argument over getting a puppy and that I loved dad. I don't think he ever forgave me for this. He hit me twice and I think it was in the years after the fire. Once, when we had an argument and I'd thrown a shoe at him during TV. Hours later, I'd been crying and put a sheet over my head to hide it. As he passes me in the hall, he just hits me in the stomach without any words. The other time, he just wanted me to get out of his way so he could get to the fridge. 

I forgave him as he mellowed during his sufferings from diabetes, but it's hard to deal with the memories after his death.