I’ve been terribly distracted in the aftermath of the death of the one I call my father for want of a more fitting and non-vulgar term. Until about two hours ago I couldn’t figure out what the distraction was — it was like there was a fact hiding in this thing I generously refer to as my mind, and until I figured out where it was hiding I couldn’t know what it was. It was very frustrating. Then the magic happened and I suddenly knew what it was.
Long story short: Though I detest psychobabble it provides a useful metaphor: My inner child has been standing there with his fists up for his whole life, unable to cry because every time he’s shown weakness he’s been beaten for it. I’ve long had the need to mourn the child I was never allowed to be but the tough little fucker wouldn’t allow it. My job now is to convince the little guy that I’ve got his back and no one’s ever going to hurt him again. I guess that’s going to require a bit of wallowing in self pity for a while.
Ya know, I’m really sick of having to repeatedly defuckerize my head. It feels like this might be the last time it’s necessary, but who the hell ever really knows a thing like that?
Either way, this feels like a very positive development. One can always hope, eh?