Musings

So here i am, doing what i've done for years previous, pouring my heart into an unknown region of cyberspace. But with one difference. When i started my secret, i felt almost perverse hope, that someone would read it. Now don't mind whether it's left in the oblivion of html codes or picked up by thousands and regarded as a...whatever. You known the story, "belle du jour, girl with a one track mind" etc. infamous bloggers with gargantuan reputations preceeding them. I'm not them, i want a quiet blog with very little traffic and almost no-one reading because what i write is my own, private, diary. In all that has happened in regards to blogging i've realised that. There is no privacy on the net. It doesn't really matter either way. I'm not kidding myself; a non-entity will remain a non-entity, until you appear on one version or another of Big Brother.

Non-entity. Thats what my Father used to describe the social extremes of the population that appeared on Big Brother as. Non-entities. Forgive me, i can not spell. I have a huge hunch i have dyslexia. I still have to pay for the tests though. My Father is what triggered me to write this. I figured the best way of achieving some sort of catharsis was to write about it, right or wrong, i'm still going to attempt to try. And i've got hicups. And i'm a bit drunk.

My Father. I haven't spoken to him in over a year due to the awful circumstances in which he left this family. He had an affair. Some wouldn't call it an affair but by hiding an action it imediately makes it immoral right? There is a subconscious ommision of guilt which makes the subject wish to conceal what they have done, the guilt stems from wrong-doing. So, by default, he had an affair. He hid it, he felt guilty for it, why else would he have felt guilt unless for the reason that he was commiting some sort of wrong act. That is, at least, my theory.

For a few weeks i was the only one to know about the affair. That was torture. Outright. It killed every cell of my being knowing that i was too weak to tell my mother yet but also too weak to confront him about it. That, essentially, is the reason i have not spoken to him for over a year. I want him to ask for forgiveness for his actions in regards to myself; putting me in that position. And, until he does so, i will not relent.

But, and there is always a but, i can't help but think more is at steak than simply right or wrong actions and the reconsiliation associated with acknowedging these actions.

And this is why i write this.

I don't know whether or not i should talk to him again. A halarious, ironic, comment to inject here would be 'reaches for wine glass' but, its not halarious, or ironic. This is my life. I can no-longer write a running commentary to my life as i did when i was years younger. I've absorbed and accepted who i am and can not take a step back from the decisions within my life. I am not a severly depressed, self destructive, partially suicidal child any longer. I am an adult. A young adult, but an adult. And i have to make decisions. Decisions that will affect the rest of my life. And i really don't know wjat to do.