It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding. That’s me. I’m injured and bleeding. But no one can see. Because it’s inside where I hurt. Be that as it may, is it fair to recognize my own pain in the face of my dad’s suffering? Self-loathing washes over me, and I ridicule myself, here in the privacy of my mind. It doesn’t make me feel better. It’s not supposed to.
