(no subject)

I've stumbled across new evidence that my father is a son-of-a-bitch. Every time I say that, I hear Miranda, from The Tempest in my head: "I should sin to think but nobly of my grandmother. Good wombs have borne bad sons," but to paraphrase Carolyn Kaiser in one of the Bernie Rhodenbarr books, "'Child of a dog' doesn't really have the same impact."

How is that one person can make me this angry? Goddamn it, I hate that he has this much power over my emotions. I hate it. And I can't get therapy; there's no counseling here. At all. It's not that I'm going to do something stupid; it's not that I can't function on my own. But I need more help than I can give myself, and I suspect a professional would be my best recourse.

I knew this isn't going to go away just because I'm three thousand miles of water away from it. I knew that. "Oh, my piglets, we are the origins of war...we are the killers. We breed war. We carry it, like syphilis, inside dead bodies, rotting field and stream. Because the living ones are rotten." I carry this pain with me, like measles or chickenpox or leprosy. But I won't allow it to infect anyone else, or to destroy me from the inside out, the way diseases do. And I know I will need more than myself to do it.

I will get the help I need, because I want it, not because anyone else wants me to get it. I will heal, although I am not broken, and I do not need to be fixed. And I will never allow anyone to have this kind of control over me again.

Reposted from LJ, 20 March 2009