AtticusFinch's Journal

Okay. I can't rid myself of the father wound. That torn, jagged rip in my soul that my father put there. I can't recall one specific incident when it happened. It seems to have ben rended over a period of years. Truthfully, I am capable of what he wants. A mindless person that just works, works works works and shoves all his anger into a deep pocket hidden away forever only to manifest itself in chewing staples, grindingteeth, explosive outbursts at loved ones and ignoring the emotions of those that count on you. Yeah, I could do just what he wants. He want's revenge or punishment because I was born, more to the point that my brother was born, I was adopted first. Hell I really don't know what he's thinking, but thanks pop, Just like you, I am angry, confused, disapointed, and now disfunctional taking a plethora of psycotropic chemicals just so I can drive into town with out flyng into a murderous rage at some poor fool late for work at the chicken plant and riding my bumper. Thanks to you and your habit of ignoring the things that I loved and was passionate about, I have no confidence in my abilities. Thanks to you I have managed to crawl and drag and suffer myself deeper into the vile swamp I so desperately want to escape from. Are you happy yet? I'm near drowning in this filth. It laps with a putrid, fedid smell and a suckling slugeonly grip upon my throat. My mind screams to me to turn back. Yet with the patronly guidence of your hand firmly upon my moral shoulder. I struggle to die here, confident that when at last I slip under the mire, you will finally love me then.