dad reminds me of the carnival game with the glove on the spring. it's not the glove i fear, it's the spring. and it always seems coiled.
such a beautiful horrible metaphor. something about his quiet nature, when a quiet person yells, it's shocking. i feel it too. i yell back, and i don't often yell in return, but i feel i need to defend myself somehow.
and i feel bad for them both. i remind her that i yell too. that i have horrible, terrible, no good very bad days, too.
and sometimes i agree with why she's gotten busted, and i tell her so. (i don't need her thinking me a great parent at his expense, that's for damn sure).
so i do my best to soothe her, to offer her some consolation. but she gets lit up by him. in a way she doesn't get lit up by me. go figure.
though we have our spats. many of them. we duke it out and move on. somehow, (unless i am entirely deluded, which i may well be), it doesn't seem to stick with us. perhaps because when we have that uncomfortable angry energy, i work at it until it goes away.
i'm not sure the man has the same ability for reconciliation. in fact, i know he doesn't. so i try to help. i try to offer what little perspective i have to her. and occasionally to him.
i remind him,
it affects her deeply when you treat her that way.
and he tries to remedy what he can when i tell him, the difficulty being, we're both exhausted and in school and working and, and, and...
it's yet another sad tale in my life, that i hope will transform someday. but i don't know that people can change their behaviours if they are not conscious of them. myself included. i haven't yelled in a great while. i think writing about my misbehaviours helps me reframe them, see them in an objective light.
i like to think this is the redemptive aspect of writing, the holy cud we writers chew.
that our works can transform us if we let them.
peace. out.
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