In 2004 I self-published a chapbook of poems that I called Estrangement: Poems. My father had left town suddenly the previous September, and I was angry, confused, and grieving, and my psychologist gave me the assignment of writing about it. The result was a set of poems that I felt really good about, good enough to want to share them with the world.
My mother’s reaction, when I finally gave her a copy, was to say, “There’s an awful lot about your father in here.” Only the first six poems were about him, but the way she said it I wondered if she thought she should have had equal time.
I suspect now that if she were to read this blog, or my morning pages, or my journal, she would be saying the exact same thing. There’s an awful lot about my father in all of my writing right now. But that’s because right now, he’s everywhere. I see him in my dreams, my waking thoughts, and in my behaviours. I see myself reacting all the time as though he were right in the room with me. He goads. He laughs. He looms so large in my periphery that he seems to block out the sun.
I deserve sunshine. This has to stop.
Despite the one psychologist telling me to write it out, most of my health care team has argued against it. I’ve been told not to ruminate on the past, but to focus on the present and look into the future. I would normally say that this is good advice. But.
I wake up screaming at him sometimes. I have dreams where I’m shouting at him not to touch me. I’m reliving it anyway. I am stuck. Might as well write.
How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. How do you break down a monolith?
One chip. One chip. One more chip.
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