All is safely gathered in
being mammy

the thorny subject of the Pater

Rain approaching from the west:



My father is a strange man. At his best, he's great, he's jovial, self-deprecating, funny and generous, but he can turn in a heartbeat to being a ranting paranoid rager. He can be like a most unpleasant and frightening child - in how you can see it is poor self-esteem and delusion and who knows what, fear, anxiety, even something that should be medicated, that is pushing him to be like this.
It's not much seen these day, that he flips, but it's lurking there under the surface. All the time. On Sunday he was driving J and I back to town when the car engine suddenly lost power on the motorway and it was decided to abandon our mission and turn for home. J and I would get out at the LUAS stop and get home that way. This was enough to make little sparks start to fly out of the father's head. Nothing too bad in itself, it just reminded me of those powerless, miserable times I spent as a child in the back of the car, or at the dinner table, listening to the anger mount, and him letting fly, me absorbing it all. And I felt sad thinking about it, even though I am an adult and able to be apart from this now, and frightened that somehow I won't be able to contain this, and will pass this on to my family, to J, to anyone. It makes it hard for me to express anger myself, to trust myself with it, to find a safe way to let it out. And it makes me ashamed when I do. I feel in a terrible bind.


I am lucky that Mr August is here to help me, the most patient and understanding person known to man.
The Anti-Da.

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