I swear I don’t do it on purpose.
It has never been my intention to make you the victim of my trauma. After all, why should you care about everything, anything, that has ever happened to me?
The things I did and what was done to me. The consequences of decades of poor decision-making and of allowing other people to turn me into the butt of the joke.
I wish I could spare you the sight of my sorrowful past and my still dubious present. But even when I try to write about happy days and a joyful life, my trauma still makes an escape, dropping references here and there in the shape of poetry and fiction.
Still, I have to say that when I look at the little universes other fellow writers have created, I find comfort in knowing I’m not alone in committing this capital sin.
In their stories, they punish the lover who betrayed them or have the father figure character tell them the words they wish their Dad had said to them: “I love you, I’m proud of you, you did so well. I love you.”
They rescue the children they used to be or build a complex villain that gets punished the way they wish the monsters in their lives had been.
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