Mid-afternoon on the sofa, I masturbate to some bad kink fiction. It is a mechanical release so that I won't feel horny later. This morning I sat in Sigi the therapist's room and cried as I regurgitated some of my most painful memories. I talked about standing by my dad's hospital bed when I thought he was dying and he told me that he had given up trying to connect with me. We didn't use the word connect - it was 1991 - but you know what I mean.
What he said was that every time he had tried to make up with or be friendly to me I had thrown it back in his face. It was true. I couldn't count how many times I had stood and sneered or shouted back at him. Sixteen years old with a fag in my hand. I never once asked him how he felt about having cancer.
I feel scoured out. I don't understand why I need to talk about this now. Is this for me or the therapist? Sigi asks hopefully if I've ever told anyone else about this. I say, Of course I have but not for a while. All I know is that when I think about Virgil with other women (now that I'm not using anger to mask everything) grief and feelings of regret and loss well up. I hope there is some benefit to doing this.
No response from Dmitri to my Facebook message. Not that I had anything to lose there, but I wonder if I scared him off?