As I attempt to enter a darker state of mind for tonight’s writing session - with a special emphasis on horror - I also dwell on the wonders of the mind, and how horrid a prospect it’d be to lose it entirely.
My father’s father inevitably comes to mind, the sadistically unapologetic monster that churned out plenty of his own before succumbing to Alzheimer’s. He was but a shell of an old man in my youth, far beyond any hope of reconciliation or repair, and completely at the mercy of those he assaulted and abused in countless ways. Yet unlike him, they showed a measure of compassion. Their world views obviously differ from mine, as most often due; in their minds, the rigidity of familial structure must be upheld no matter what. Authority figures deserve love and devotion strictly because a certain role is being filled, albeit on the lowest parameter possible, and that is to say the role of the Provider…
…But what of the Teacher, the Role Model, and the Nurturer?
Does my disdain seep through these lines? To my greatest astonishment, I’ve never heard any story of his children striking back at their monster of a father as I did with my own, not even under the provocation of self-defense. I did not mourn his passing. It did not stir me in the slightest, as my grandmother’s death had a few months prior. I miss her presence in my life; her kind, gentle old soul.
My thoughts: There is no tie that cannot be severed. No bridge that cannot be burned. There is no cycle that cannot be broken. To think that blood should make any difference is foolish, based in my opinion on societal concepts more than one concerning mental health.
If I’m cursed with this same eventual fate of Alzheimer’s, then the day that I lose sight of who I am and what I’ve already accomplished to end this cycle of abuse is truly the day that I too shall die.