Don’t Speak Ill of the Dead

There are some things that you are not supposed to say, at least not out loud in public. People are very sensitive, and anything too frank, honest, blunt, outspoken… well… anything really in some cases… can make their ears ring with alarm bells and cause their mouths to open and tell you to shut up. Oh, they’ll probably say it really politely while looking at you with a pained expression, their eyes filled with reproach, and that makes what they are saying good, and what you have said bad.

My father died recently. I only found out today. We had been estranged for many years, having finally admitted that we had nothing in common other than DNA, which was something he often questioned even though I look exactly like him. I said my goodbyes to him when we decided to call it quits on ever having a relationship. It was as amicable a parting as it was ever going to be. No love lost, as they say.

But I’m not supposed to say that sort of thing, it’ll make people uncomfortable. A child is supposed to love their parents no matter what the parents do or feel towards the child. Because of course my parents loved me, they just had a hard time expressing their love… I’ve forgotten how the mantra goes as I haven’t heard it in a while. I made the mistake on several occasions when I was in rash truth speaking mode to voice the fact that neither of my parents loved me. The reaction of those hearing my words was to vehemently deny my truth in favour of the illusion that all parents love their children and that’s that, end of discussion.

I rarely discuss my parents with people. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Fair enough. But how are you supposed to deal with living a lie. You create a safe place, like a blog, where you can express the truth, your truth, via rambling written posts, and hope to god no one who knows you in the outernet ever finds out about it. Not because you’re ashamed of who you really are, what you feel, think, etc, but because others need you to maintain an illusion for them. Your bluntness might be sharp enough to pop their delusional bubbles which would result in their fantasy world crumbling to pieces, and that would be a very selfish and hurtful thing to do. Or something like that.

So, on the subject of my father. The relationship was complicated. There were good bits, but they were eclipsed by all the bad bits. I could write a Daddy Dearest book about it. But I never would. That’s something I swore to myself I would not do, because ultimately he was the way he was with me because of his own traumatic childhood. And his childhood was fraught with drama, and he passed most of his issues onto me as his heir. One of his main issues was that he did not want to have children. This proved to be something he never got over.

I was reading Howard Sasportas’ book The Twelve Houses early this morning after waking up from a strange dream about my childhood. I couldn’t get back to sleep, and, so, for whatever reason, I picked up the book and it fell open upon an interesting piece about those born with Pluto and Uranus in the first house.

“The first house energies describe our arrival on the scene and the effect it has on others. Pluto may coincide with a major crisis of reorientation for those around us. Uranus may signify that our arrival brings disruption or change into the lives of others.”

That sums up fairly accurately how I felt about my birth, and how my parents felt about it, especially my father. He never recovered from it. Never adapted or adjusted. He just didn’t know what to do with a child. Occasionally he relaxed and enjoyed my existence, but most of the time he resented the intrusion. My mother did everything in her power to drive a wedge between us in those moments when she thought we might be getting close and actually liking each other. She had had an awful relationship with her father, and so that was a lovely little heirloom she wanted me to have too.

The dream I had inspired me with an idea connected to my new creative outlet, and so I Googled my father’s name. That’s when I found a news article announcing his death. I was surprised. He had been ill for years, but he was so convinced that he was immortal that I almost believed it. I also quite liked the idea of being half-immortal. It’s a relief really to know that that is not a possibility. And a relief to know that my father can finally rest in peace. He was a very tortured soul.

**This was written a couple of months ago for tumblr. The problematic situation engulfing my life at the moment is directly connected to this, so I thought I would post it. I would like to write a current piece about the situation, but every time I try, I delete everything and give up. For now, anyway. Some of my reluctance to share the situation and my personal problems, on a blog, and even with my friends, has to do with how those on the outside of your life perceive things versus how things are viewed from the inside out. This has been a theme in my life, one which has caused much conflict, pain, and other such things. I have tried to understand its workings, but I am still at the struggling to solve a conundrum phase.