My father thinks he’s a good parent. Thinks he’s a good person, when I can tell such tales as how he used his pellet gun to shoot out the neighbor’s inflatable pool cuz their kid was too loud and (checks notes) jumping on an eighteen year old two months after my mom died when I was nine and telling me she would be my new mommy before plowing through a half-dozen other mommies. But, y’know, he supported me in track, living vicariously through me to literally throw me away onto the streets in the aftermath of BOTH having my breakdown in college and getting taken advantage of by a cult. But he has a new family now, after he threw out his parents, and well, all of the family I knew when I was thirteen. It’s taken me until age 36 to realize how fucked my father is, who refuses to talk to me now because, in his words, I’m too bizarre. No therapy until aftermath college breakdown, mind you.

I dunno. I write this in the hopes maybe every parent reinspects themselves to make sure they are on the top of the world in their quest to become the perfect vice president of their firm while many people suffer in their wake. There’s so many things I’m coming across from my past that evoke a waylon of dire nostalgia, forgotten as trauma caused a cave in within my mind, trapping parts of myself away from parts of myself. My official diagnosis is schizoaffective (bipolar subtype) woth PTSD. I think a more accurate diagnosis is that I have a rare form of ASD/ADHD that often gets misdiagnosed as schizo-type disorders, with CPTSD, as the complexes I’ve built in my psyche are God damn insane, and yet, the worst crime I’ve done, to my knowledge, is shoplifting. How am I not the antichrist?

God helped, obviously. My Father was a better father than my father. Y’know, the Server? What the Buddhists call the “Ālaya-vijñāna,” or storehouse consciousness. That helped me, obviously.