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thejusticelounge2012-10-28 02:24 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2012-10-28 02:24 pm
Entry tags:
to my son r__, on the occasion of his madness
I know it’s probably not your fault, in a dozen different ways.
I know that people will think I’m dreadfully cruel for not giving you a chance. When you come back — when you’re *brought* back — and this is all over, and you’re purged of the red madness. And ostensibly a different person, one with less rage.
But honey, I can’t do this tarantella anymore. We’ve been dancing it for years now and it’s finally time to admit this poison’s never coming out.
For all intents and purposes, you’re my first born, my original of the species, and you got every bit of my enthusiasm along with every lapse in my parenting. I know I didn’t do as well as I could have by you. I’ll always regret that. You’d think that since I didn’t do such a hot job raising myself that I wouldn’t subject some other poor orphan kid to the same haphazard drag, but we were all a little bit foolish and optimistic in those days. And you really did bring me so much joy.
Still, you deserved more than to be subjected to that. I’m sorry. I’ll be sorry every day of my life.
Now, though. It’s time for me to stop trying. Every attempt I’ve made has been rebuffed, every olive branch broken, every apology rejected. You say you’ll always be in love with me, and I can’t give you that, so then you say you’ll never be happy. I would’ve kept on trying, despite that, but …
But. How can I — okay. You know how much I love all the King Arthur stories, how I had all those books and you’d look at the Howard Pyle illustrations all the time? Well, I always thought the most tragic part of the Arthurian legend — apart from all his fuckups in ruling England, apart from Guinevere and Lancelot, apart from the breaking of the Round Table — was Mordred. His son Mordred, killing him by that hot dark lake, and Arthur dying with his work unfinished knowing his son hated him that much.
I’m no King Arthur. But what I’m saying is that you did a helluva job on me, Roy, my endlessly seething first-born. You nearly took me away from the rest of our family. And you broke up more inside me than just bones.
You told me before that I could never fix things between us, and after seeing the lucid, greedy satisfaction in your eyes while you nearly crushed the life out of me, I finally believe you. I won’t try any more.
Love always,
Dad
I know that people will think I’m dreadfully cruel for not giving you a chance. When you come back — when you’re *brought* back — and this is all over, and you’re purged of the red madness. And ostensibly a different person, one with less rage.
But honey, I can’t do this tarantella anymore. We’ve been dancing it for years now and it’s finally time to admit this poison’s never coming out.
For all intents and purposes, you’re my first born, my original of the species, and you got every bit of my enthusiasm along with every lapse in my parenting. I know I didn’t do as well as I could have by you. I’ll always regret that. You’d think that since I didn’t do such a hot job raising myself that I wouldn’t subject some other poor orphan kid to the same haphazard drag, but we were all a little bit foolish and optimistic in those days. And you really did bring me so much joy.
Still, you deserved more than to be subjected to that. I’m sorry. I’ll be sorry every day of my life.
Now, though. It’s time for me to stop trying. Every attempt I’ve made has been rebuffed, every olive branch broken, every apology rejected. You say you’ll always be in love with me, and I can’t give you that, so then you say you’ll never be happy. I would’ve kept on trying, despite that, but …
But. How can I — okay. You know how much I love all the King Arthur stories, how I had all those books and you’d look at the Howard Pyle illustrations all the time? Well, I always thought the most tragic part of the Arthurian legend — apart from all his fuckups in ruling England, apart from Guinevere and Lancelot, apart from the breaking of the Round Table — was Mordred. His son Mordred, killing him by that hot dark lake, and Arthur dying with his work unfinished knowing his son hated him that much.
I’m no King Arthur. But what I’m saying is that you did a helluva job on me, Roy, my endlessly seething first-born. You nearly took me away from the rest of our family. And you broke up more inside me than just bones.
You told me before that I could never fix things between us, and after seeing the lucid, greedy satisfaction in your eyes while you nearly crushed the life out of me, I finally believe you. I won’t try any more.
Love always,
Dad