Just sent an email to a casual acquaintance and to jog her memory described myself as “the enslaved writer who scrubs toilets for a living.”
Ouch! Yet oh so true.
Nothing would make me happier than to be freed of the slavery pounded into body, brain and spirit by my father in my childhood.
More precisely, nothing would bring peace and freedom like being freed of the slavery pounded into body, brain and spirit by my father in childhood.
That which doesn’t destroy us makes us stronger. A lovely concept that I no longer believe; life evidence to the contrary is overwhelming.
Truly I do not know how to break free from bondage. Or, I have forgotten. The result is the same. I no longer remember how to be free, only survive.
I would like to be shown how to be free. Wonder whether it has anything to do with the F word.
A gadzillion times harder in every respect than that other F word. (“Fuck,” not “freedom,” just to be clear.)