Freud, Me, and All That Shit (Ladies and Gentlemen -Introducing Mr. Mark Goldwert)
One hadn’t seen or spoken to her father in six years despite living in the same town. When the the old fool died, the walls of his dingy flat were yellow from cigarette smoke. There were squares and rectangles of glimmering whiteness behind the photos on the walls.
Another took four or five years of sexual abuse and merciless beatings from her old man before he finally cleared out. His continued existence became the thing of rumor to her and her brothers, and that was fine with them.
There was this one whose dad was drunk all the time and lived alone in the basement. He’d leave to go to work or come upstairs for meals, which he ate with his wife and kids and a tall glass of vodka from a gallon jug.
Some years later there were two in a row who’s fathers just up and left them when they were teenagers and then wanted nothing to do with them.
Brutal, ugly, sad men with beautiful, shining daughters.
I don’t know why these things happened to them and I don’t know if it had to do with why they loved me.
But they did.
