So I had a fight with my Dad this weekend. On the surface we argued about the same art we always argue about. The same peices I say “Its pointless to argue about so let it go Raquita.” We’ve had this arguement on average once a year since I moved out. (yes I realise that was 2001.) But I instantly after we left knew I didn’t care about the pictures - don’t get it twisted, I wanted them, I think I was right but I always do so thats not new. But like I said its the same arguement so the question to myself became, so why are you really arguing with your father Raquita?
And it occurs to me that its because I never see him, the girls never see him, major holidays withstanding. Perhaps it is because I am angry with my father because we are so far apart. That he say’s hes coming to see the girls and doesn’t. That we are offically every other average divorced family in the world, and I wasn’t raised to be average at anything. Maybe its because I am angry and I don’t want to be, and I am angry with myself that I am angry. And it didn’t take ten grand in therapy or a 3 thousand dollar prostitue (thats my Pretty Woman refrence for the day) to figure it out. Lucky Me. Meh. This is why I am writing poems again.
I had a full full weekend. I will be posting all manner of wonder about it really really soon. But this one of the posts I miss posting. So, I am posting.
Maybe I need to drink more Vodka.
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It is amazing to me how much we never lose the need for our parents to be their best selves for us. It makes me angry at myself when I get angry at my parents, too. I think to myself, hey, I am an adult, and I should be able to deal with my emotions regarding my parents better. But it’s hard.