nccotus

I always pictured Dad Alex as a monk somewhere in his soul.

I read “A Clergyman’s Daughter” by George Orwell when I was in college and absolutely adored that book although I don’t remembered it very well now.

when I had borne Ian I was writing about him and I had one line that wouldn’t drop: “L’s father was an Englishman.” I couldn’t get past that. It was a beautiful long poem that I wrote by hand over and over because I couldn’t get Alex to buy me a typewriter.

”L” was a character from my love life with Alex. He forced me to whisper slutty fantasies to him starring myself. I defused the energy a little by making it about “L,” a fiction of me.

I kept all that writing but it may have gone the way of all of my writing: my father has been purloining everything I left in the cottage and everything from 38 years ago when I stayed with them in the main house after arriving from Boston decades ago. My alien drawings from 2021 likewise. I have been begging him to return it all at any cost. Likewise the home furnishings in the barn, the shed, and the attic. They are worth money that belongs to me.

Alex must have been disgusted like anybody else when he discerned the condition of my body the night we engaged in intimate relations. It must be that he wanted the Green Card so bad he put up with it. All i could think about was wanting a cigarette, when he was done, I got up and went out into the living room and smoked. I was triggered to get into bed with him by a seizure moment, I did not want to at all. We watched the movie Swann’s Way, about the “Cattleya”. About how the sexuality in a relationship is set up by the first time. And so it was. It just stayed that way, not good. He had me watch a couple of nasty porn flicks that belonged to his roommate, they harmed and disgusted me.

I emailed him a week ago about “fixing the cattleya.” It would help even today to try to go back there and mend things. I had so much physical pain from what he was forcing me to do.