Slanting Towards the Sea

by Lidija Hilje

Our home wasn’t any less broken just because we lived in one household.

Because even conceding to someone else’s wishes, giving in to meet someone else’s needs—even sacrificing yourself—is a choice.

It was selfless and selfish at the same time. An act of altruism, rooted in fear, as so many of my decisions have been. I was so afraid of taking ownership, of taking up space. Afraid of waiting for loss so much that I did the act of cutting myself.

It’s that I’ve mirrored back a version of him he doesn’t want to see. To accept that you were wrong about something isn’t only to accept the mistake itself. It’s accepting each time you acted on that false belief.

“You were unhappy, Vlaho.” He laughed, a broken, ironic sneer. “No, Mom,” he said. “You were unhappy. There’s a difference. Or did it never occur to you that I am capable of feelings of my own?”

She had held herself on the pedestal of pain for so long it had made it impossible for him to imagine anyone could hurt more than she did, and he never wanted to be the one adding to her suffering.

It had been that he had formed his identity around appeasing her. Who was he, without that? What was his true nature if not to pacify, placate, acquiesce? Who would he be had it not been for her influence? He had no idea.

Because, we don’t set boundaries most easily with strangers or those who mistreat us. We set them with those who make us feel loved and safe, who hold space for us to admit our needs and limits, even when they’re the ones paying the price for it.

I also think about the marks we all leave on one another, willingly or not. Gentle touches we offer. Scars we inflict.