Thirty-Six, Dark

Thirty-Six

Dark

9 June 1824

I have been in a bad way these past few days, not wanting to write, not wanting to eat, not wanting to sleep.  There are times when I can forget, and perhaps almost forgive.  But then I remember.  I remember what Father told me.  The import of it is finally resting itself with me; it is a waking nightmare.

There are times when I believe that I understand things.  There are times when I think, Father was drunk.  He did not know or understand what he was doing.  But is that possible?  Is that truly possible?

Much of me believes that drunks tell themselves that they cannot remember things.  That they are not responsible for what they cannot remember.  Therefore, they must never fully remember.  And if they start to remember, even a scintilla of a memory, they ram that memory back into their head so far that it is not possible to remember. 

What I wrote the other day--that I do not hate Father any more--is not really true.  It was what I wanted to believe, what my newly Christian heart wanted to truly believe.  Forgiveness is what is expected of us.  Or them.  For I do not believe that I can be called a Christian.

I wish that Father had never told me. 

I wish that I had never seen.

I wish that I could understand.

I wish that I could forget.

There are things that did not make sense to me then that are beginning to square away in my mind.  I wish that were not so.  I do not wish to have my eyes opened as an adult.  But neither do I wish for childhood.

Somewhere there is this place that is neither past nor present nor future.   Somewhere there is this place that is neither twilight nor dawn.

Oh that I might be there now.