I loved Paul Harvey... And now for the rest of the story...

(Dear Therapist,)

I really hope I'm right to trust you. This is the part of me that no one else sees. The last couple of days have been hard. I have located part of the problem. It's here. Please read it. I will call you ten to fifteen minutes late so you can absorb everything. After you visit the link and then compare it to how I was three years ago, then there is more and we can talk about it, but I need you to know ahead of time because I don't know where I'll be then.

The 'more' is... well, it's this song I used to sing for my father in the last couple of years before he died when I could still sing in public. It was his favorite and he encouraged me to sing it. It's here. [embedded at the end of the post for blog readers]Please listen to all the words and you'll see what I mean. He knew... he knew something of the origin of my problems... and he sympathized. And I hate him for it. I hate him for it. How fucking dare he never be explicit with me about his own behavior and then just up and die?! What kind of shit is that?!

And as much as I hate it, he might have offered me part of himself. I remember when I was five or so, another kid took my bike and he made me go take it back (under the threat of violence, of course). But I don't want anything good to be from him. The good things are mine. I want him to go away. Yet this keeps torturing me, ringing through my head. I want him gone. I just want him to shut up. I won't feel sorry for him. I won't.