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WHY DID I WRITE THIS STORY?
(A good friend of mine said she likes to read my little blog posts that tell the story behind the story. So here is another one. It's a juicy one, too...)
My dad died October 4th, 2020, one year ago this month. He and I had a complicated relationship. It was a strange one, and often threatened to become an estranged one... but it never did. I think for some time I held out hope I would finally connect with him, in a father-son sort of way, or even a human-to-human way, but it never happened. And I realized well before he died it never would. So I just let things be.
Out of all of the members of my family, a family six of before my dad passed away, I am confident I judge my father the most harshly. I don't cut him any slack; others do. At least that is my interpretation. Part of this might be because I had a different relationship with my father than they did. After all, I am the youngest in the family, and experienced things from a unique vantage point. Events that happened to the whole family hit me at a different stage of my own life. Plus, there are also things, often shitty things, that only my dad and I experienced, together. I also think a big part of my tough stance is because I am so fucking similar to the man. I even look like he did. And I think I share many of the same struggles he did, and insecurities. And... detachment. From other people, and from emotions. But if I can force myself to get out of my comfort zone, and have real connections with people I care about, why couldn't he?
My dad is dead now, and he is not coming back. I will never have a connection with him, which I had already made peace with, long, long before he died. Sometimes I sit down to write, and a story seemingly writes itself, for whatever reason. This was one of those times.
May I present, from My Memoir: "Benzene"...- END OF BLOG ENTRY -