I came the conclusion long ago that everything wrong with me is my dad’s fault. (Wouldn’t Freud be proud?) It’s not that simplistic of course. Actually everything wrong with me is his fault, and his mother’s, and her father’s and so on. Of course Mom and me aren’t blameless either. Aside from nature, and perhaps the lack of nurture, my problems would appear to mostly self-inflicted and self perpetuating too.

I’m as fucked up as the next semi-“normal” person who, outwardly at least, projects an attitude that everything is just swell. I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping my feelings so locked up inside that even I’ve misplaced the key. I’ve been accused of being unable to share intimate thoughts and that’s a fair accusation.

There seems to be a pattern in my life of developing friendships that mean a lot to me, but for which I’ve lacked the dedication, or the ability to devote the necessary attention to maintaining them. Over and over in my life close friends have moved away (literally) and I’ve lost touch. Now they seem irretrievably gone from my life. I feel the loss, but I am unable (unwilling?) to do anything about it.

Because this has happened several times I’ve come the the conclusion that this must be a flaw in my character. This isn’t just happening TO me. I am allowing it to happen, maybe even aiding in the course of the process. But that’s not all. It isn’t just people who have left physically. I have a real difficulty with keeping day to day relationships alive. In fact I am resentful that this seems to be my responsibility.

I keep repeating the cycle. Make a friend, lover, spouse, whatever, get close, then begin distancing yourself so it won’t hurt when they give up and abandon you. Yeah. That’s it, exactly. As my daughter would say, WTF?

I got in this self-analyzing mood because I awoke this morning with the beginnings of a fiction story rattling around fully blown in my head. I do that. I write the beginning paragraphs of stories. They’re good too. Some people say that opening lines are the hardest. Not for me, I can do great opening lines. No, really! It’s just that I can’t sustain them. Kinda like my life. Shit.

Anyway I’ve begun to notice a pattern in the kinds of fiction I write for amusement. It all has to do with either escape, or abandonment. What would a shrink make of that I wonder?