Stitching myself together four strings at a time.

Found another link to sadness, today. As I play, I’m finding I grieve a few of the things that happened, and a few of the things that didn’t happen. I found my adoptive father in practicing, today.

Music was his domain, and only his domain.

I’ve spent much of my life curating my memories. I’m blocking some, and it’s not the expected ones. I adapted to losing the dad who raised me by only allowing the bad memories to exist. My mom reinforced this by only letting us talk about the bad things, and by feeding us terrible stories.

I’m running from the good memories. I’m afraid of the good memories.

Without meaning to, I found my way into a good memory. I was… six? Seven? Younger? In the kitchen, looking up, watching my dad cook and do dishes, and sing. He had such a good voice. I remember adoring him in that moment. I was so happy.

My first impulse with this memory was to not think about/feel it. Instead I stayed with it. I cried, and felt gutted. And there was my inner kid, crying with me. I’ve only let myself remember the bad. The abuse. The terror. The abandonment. But I also loved him with the desperation of a child. Reconciling that was confusing and just hurt so much. This experience had some bite to it.

Letting myself feel this doesn’t mean I forgive him; doesn’t mean I want contact with him. But it did make me a little more whole. Less divided from myself.

Day 8:

Day 9:

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