I honestly don’t believe my past holds me back. I’d made the decision, some time a while ago, that I would not be a victim. Not anyone’s victim. This decision, or declaration (if you prefer) is a bit on the melodramatic side. But when you’re declaring yourself for something (anything), you really ought to do it with oomph.

So, as I was saying - nobody’s punching bag.

This tidy little mental package has it’s price, though. A false sense of invincibility against the past. You forget that while you may have overcome things and declined to be anyone’s bitch anymore, you’ve nonetheless been shaped by the people and events you’ve moved on from. These experiences still inform who you are, and if they don’t manifest themselves in obvious ways, they still do manifest. Irksomely.

Take for instance (please), my experiences with the fine art of stepfathering. They had not, historically, been great ones. I had a stepfather, once. Genuine article, met at a PWP camp. PWP. Heh - what a perverse thing. Marriage-hunting camp for families.

He had two, we were three. Together, we made six. We were six for a lot of years, and then suddenly, there was an unexpected edition, with the birth of my post-vasectomy sister. I will never fully trust the vasectomy, because of her existence.

Anyway, he was around for about nine years. We seven were around for about three. And during that time, my stepfather watched guppies. Seriously. There we’d be, in the living room, all watching TV and him sat with his back to us, parked up against a giant tank of guppies. He’d twist his ear absentmindedly and stare at the fornicating guppies. Piscetarian Porn? Gawd only knows. But if it was nothing else, it was certainly an accurate summary of our family life.

Somewhere along the way, he must have consulted a lawyer. That lawyer, staring into the face of a man who had, in all ways but surname, been raising two children for nine years that were not his by blood, gave him some very cold-blooded advice.

Backtrack, Brother. And quickly. If you don’t, you’ll certainly be staring at child support for one of those two children, though the oldest will be close enough to 18 that you’ll likely win that one. But alimony, plus child support for TWO children?

My stepfather, seeing the demise of his financial life writ large on the face of this anonymous lawyer, did what any rational, sensible, hard-headed borderline personality would do. He ceased acting as a parent to that middle child, the one that suddenly started looking so expensive.

Things remained that way for three years or so. As long as it took my mother to finish her degree in psychology, so that she could financially support us when she did leave.

It probably goes without saying that I knew none of this at the time. How would I know?

Anyway. The bottom line is this. I experienced this, it was painful and it took me a lot of time to get over it. But I’m over it.

Mostly.

See, I’ve realized that I’m especially twitchy in certain areas related to blended families. I am absolutely unwavering in my emphasis on our status as a family. And I am dedicated to giving our girls balance, stability and a sense of security. It sounds sort of noble, written that way.

Trouble is, I’ve realized that it’s not really all that well-grounded in the nobler sentiments. It’s rooted in a deep-seated terror. If any shade of my ex-stepfather ever passed across these girls lives, I know that something in me would break.

Buddy is not capable of doing this, I know. I have the utmost faith in him. He is a stable, loving and nurturing parent, and he has a relationship with the girls that I adore watching. They are my first true experience with a healthy father-daughter relationship and I love seeing it.

But the legacy of experience doesn’t just reside in the question of victim or no. It manifests itself in knowledge. And what you know can happen.