There is this idea of perfection. The goal I set for myself upon the same pedestal she once rested her ass. If I can find X, then I will have the total for Y and Z. This idea of life has persisted in my brain for years. I existed outside the sound of pain and watched it like an unfolding battlefield.
‘Always seek the better, greater answer, Daemon.’
When you tell me I have Daddy issues, I’ll look at you with a wry smile and agree, but I’ll want to punch you for mentioning it. I thought him resolved. His death no longer chokes me up. I no longer wonder if I could have somehow stopped his withered, evil heart from shriveling up and giving out. I don’t pretend to think that I held the unknown component to his equation.
He was forever seeking the answer in me, you see. Forever teaching and training me to find what was missing, what was wrong. He never told me what the problem was. Perhaps in his soulless eyes, he sought to find substance in and control over what rode him like one of the horsemen.
‘Breathe, son, it’ll pass. Look at me. Look! What did you do?’
I’m not him. The greatest choice I’ve made towards perfection was to turn away from him, the hardest choice of a million. The abscess left behind festered as open wounds do, and stinks of roses, sandalwood and blame. I’ve extracted it.
The internal dialogue changes as they do, and while it took me years to talk about my father without choking up with guilt and regret, I also wonder how long it will take me to put down another voice. Another regret. Another pile of ridden anxiety of why I didn’t see everything unfolding.
‘Find the answer, son.’
‘Why me? Why us?’
‘You didn’t see him?’
‘When did you last talk to him?’
I’m not him,. I am not the sum of them. I am not me minus her. I am not me minus him.
I am just me. And I don’t have answers. I am putting the chaos into a viscous fluid, time to float and stop seeking, if only for a little bit.