November 29th, 1981
Hobbling liabilities— the little boy whose overwhelming need for his father’s love was equaled only by his insane fear of the man— the child whose worthlessness was confirmed by the absence of his father’s love— and whose guilt for loving his father was easily eroticised into masochism; a masochism which was perfectly formed in his mother’s image.
—the man who has carried this pain and self-loathing and guilt and masochism like monstrous scars concealed beneath the clothing of identity— drowned daily, anesthetized into oblivion on a daily basis with drugs and alcohol. And always, beneath the thick fog of booze was the muffled sound of a little boy’s sobs.
Digging out of the debris: now, eight months sober, trying to wade through the rot and wreckage and find those parts of me that are whole or intact and to try and construct an adult whose real feelings are valid and worthwhile and not a monotonous replay of old damaged tapes.
Is it wrong for me to be feeling this ache for Tony? Is he just another man upon who I am trying to fit the mask of my father?