Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

25 February, 2008

Today is my father's birthday. Sixty-one years old. My father is an old man. It seems wrong, somehow. That he's old, I mean.

I spent so many years trying to split my father into two people. It makes perfect sense. I dissociate, so why don't I try and do the same thing to him, right? I tried to tell myself I had two fathers. One was the drunk, the other was my real daddy, the one I loved. The one who loved me. Only, it isn't real. They're the same person. And I want to stop feeling so sickhearted at the thought of hurting his feelings. I want to stop loving him. To never talk to him again.

I sent him a birthday card. My neck and back are so tight I can hardly move them. I wish I could stop. The pain is pretty bad.

I went to the doctor today. Now I have a steroid inhaler. I am very, very uneasy about it. But I am more uneasy about fainting from lack of air.


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