The truth is usually simple. And horrible. And ugly. Should only be there for emergencies.

Because it’s typically easier to lie.
Not because I’m trying to fool people. Like really who even cares that much?

See now I’m already annoyed at me. Because I wouldn’t keep reading a blog of someone who’s so goddamn whiny.

Yesterday my therapist said one of the best therapists he ever worked under/was taught by told him all therapy is is telling one’s story. That once someone’s told their story, they’re done with therapy.
He asked me last week if I ever thought about writing the story of my childhood.
I tried it, for a bit. When I was still conceptualizing CF1. I had two manilla envelopes, one with bits of scrap paper that would later work as prompts to write my 2-80 page snippets that I one day would merge into CF1.
The scrap paper with my childhood on it, all those terrible memories that you don’t necessarily think about enough to have them foremost in your mind. These terrible incidents you want to remember, because maybe if you can explain how your dad would go through the small trash can in your bedroom so he could berate you about how many potato chips and french fries you ate, then tell you that you needed to watch all that because your hips and your butt were getting too big…and what, did you want to look like your mother? you think, maybe if I can tell someone that, they can for ONE second feel the fucking revulsion I lived with every day of my life.
My father is the ONE person I don’t feel ambivalent towards. He’s the only person I fucking hate. I get why he is as he is, but yeah, that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make it okay. Literally cannot wait until he’s dead.

Well I have to go cook dinner. If I save this as a draft it’ll die with its three dozen brethren. So. Publish time.

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