The last time I talked with my mother was in winter of 1995. I did not expect my parents to be there. I had avoided them for a couple of years. I was at a party for my infant nephew and went outside to get away from her. I think that my older nephew had invited me to come outside with him and his friend. My mother followed me. I felt burdened and trapped as usual. She started conversing with me as if there were no problems between us and as if I had not been shunning her. I brought up that I had a diagnosis of fibromyalgia. She dismissed that, saying, "oh, tense muscles," and then proceeded to blabber at me about my father's work project and about her middle-aged female physical issues. It was not until later that I realized how angry I was about her dismissal and about her once again using me as a peer and confidant. I'd been more concerned about getting away from her. I think that the last time I spoke with my father was within a year or two later when I confronted him about their being incest perpetrators. He shouted at me, and I was self doubting and tense and worn out and raw.