An Iota Against a Motherlode

I’ve said so many nasty things about my father in my blog-life.

It’s like the dirty jokes because of the undiagnosed organic personality disorder and the deep stress I was under and the pain that I was in.

I understand now that he was helping to raise both my son AND me and I just didn’t recognize it and he didn’t get the recognition he deserved.

Recently I have been reminding myself to “Honor my father.” And this brings some of the most inconceivable and fantastic and simple truths back into place in my life.

Radical acceptance comes in first and forgiveness–and then understanding and the simple understanding of the lessons of the simple working class Yorkshire, England kid he grew up as. I listen to his advice when I was about to blow it out and something nice happens.

I still get angry when he disrespects the very different person I can be. I have many traits like his but also some like my mother. My mother, I finally realize, HATED ME! She just put up with me. I ADORED my mother. I just waited for when she would finally be my mother again. Then, she died.

As things continue to work out and move forward in the wake of the mole surgery, we turn out to be a real family not exactly just like any other but, just like any other we have our ins and outs and our skeletons in the closet. Much of my life I was not living in reality. I was held in this strange bind of self-psychoanalysis. It has finally stopped.