I spend the morning in self-doubt. Is any of this working? Maybe it was working for a while, but is it working now? What should I do?

The saw seems to be getting easier to deal with, but I think maybe I just placed it safely behind dissociative glass. I don’t know. I’d say it wasn’t a good morning, but I did have fried eggs and buckwheat pancakes with marmalade, so all was not lost.

Then something finally happens in my head that starts to seem a little worthwhile. Underneath my feelings of worthlessness, is this desire to plead. I realized this last night, and lost the thread or the point of that. I find it again—I don’t remember how. I snuggle with a blanket. I sit with that for a while. C pops into my head. I have that feeling about her I seem be “stuck” in working through—it’s love and warmth and affection, but it’s other things too, perhaps, and it’s also over-intense, so that I know I am not really processing it. I know there is something wrong.

Well, I sit with that too.

It makes me think of the girls who cared about me. It seems we were worthless, but they had the capacity to care. That is something. It seems to be an important something.

I think about my dad again. I think about that desire to plead. I feel that desire to kill myself again, and I think to myself the abuse was so bad I wanted to die rather than keep doing it and he still wouldn’t stop. And I sort of get it.

I imagine I’ll have to go through this a few times to really grasp it. I was his own child, I lived in the same house with him, he saw me doing all the things that children do—things that normally humanize someone in another’s eyes—and he didn’t care enough to respond to my agony and stop.

It occurs to me how he saw things, that he assumed everyone was like him and the rest of the humanity adapted to rules because they were too scared or too stupid to break them. He assumed everyone used emotional displays manipulatively the way he does and it’s just the rest of us are gullible. He endowed everyone else with his psychology and explained all the variances from it as either cowardice or foolishness. Without any connection at all to others, without any joy in anyone else’s mere existence, there wasn’t that much for him. He got really bored.

And he also thought lots of people secretly want to torture and kill little girls and they didn’t because they were wimps.

It’s astonishing. That’s an astonishing world-view to have.

Nearly everyone in the world has some degree of value. Cranky, unpleasant, greedy people might still have something to offer someone. Pedophiles might still have some hope for them. But my dad and his kind, that one percent or two percent of humanity that really does not give a damn about anyone, they are worth nothing. I am worth something, but I cannot find any value at all in my dad.

It also makes me think again that who we are, and whether we are decent human beings or not, seems to have something to do with will. My dad had a shitty childhood, as did I. As did the girls, I am sure. And yet they cared about me. They cared about each other. They remained human. I care about others still. And maybe it’s genetics, but it’s not strictly environment. It is not strictly the pressures we are under, although they play a part. There are decisions we make, maybe conscious, maybe not conscious, about how much we are going to care about individuals and how much we care about what is right and what is wrong. My dad didn’t care.

There is this feeling that things have gone right side up in my head. Not all the way, but this was a first pass.

My dad is and was truly evil. That might seem obvious, but when you are five and seeing something no one else seems to see, it’s not that obvious. It seems impossible that you, in your developing, inexperienced little five-year-old brain might see something that no one else sees. It seems impossible you might know right and wrong better than your daddy, who is supposed to teach you about it. And it seems impossible that you are seeing things so far removed from what everyone else expects to happen that they seem impossible. I mean, my dad had a meat grinder. He was grinding up bodies of murdered girls. I can’t think of anyone I could have told that you might have said, “Oh, yeah, I kind of thought he might.” I can’t think of anyone who would have even really believed me. It was so beyond the pale.

The other thing I got as I mulled all of this over was the confusion of it. The confusion that seems to relate to that. How is this possible? This is not how daddies are meant to behave. Or, do all daddies behave this way, and everyone lies about it? It’s a conundrum. No wonder I think about all this sometimes and I just feel crazy. I seem to be able to get through the day quite a bit better than most people with delusions, but am I just delusional? I was such a confused little child.

But I realize as an adult how unsafe I was. My dad was a truly dangerous person. As long as my life was in his power, I was in really desperate danger: physical danger, emotional danger, every kind of danger. No wonder all my “triggers” for safety occurred outside of his realm, in a brothel, a place I suppose he went but where we never interacted. He was the most dangerous person I knew, and I lived with him. I lived with the devil.

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