the daughter repents?
Thursday, Aug. 07, 2003

My last entry was written in a fit of childish rage, and my literary child borne out of anger, well, quite frankly, sucks. I reread the entry minutes ago, and, man, I sound like an angsty fifteen year old. I am leaving it up, though, as a reminder that one shouldn't really act on one's impulses when angry.

My father is a good man.
His absence from my childhood wasn't one of choice; he suffers from a psychological disorder that swings his moods from the lowest to the highest extremes. I can't say I don't resent him for not being there, but I understand now why he wasn't there, and am trying to forgive the sins I thought he committed against me during my younger years.

Growing up with a father who is barely there physically and and is emotionally distant is hard. The cuts heal slow and scar.
I suspect my ongoing rage against God and men stems from a resentment towards my father; what I thought was his rejection of me has put me on this path of constant antagonism and rebellion.
[Notice how God is almost always referred to, and thought of, as male?
Father, God, Men - the trinity that abandons, rejects, controls.]

I have yet to speak to my father since that incident.

The insolent part of me tells me to wait quietly, don't apologize, it's going to blow over.

The better part of me, the one that cries when she thinks of her mother trying to cope, of her sister trying to help, of her father, praying, weeping desperately for God to make him well, wants to run home and hug him and tell him she's sorry.