Being a woman is a painful inconvenience. My body is designed to do things, I fully protest. A bleeding, a yearning for sensual touch. It demands a great deal. Although I withhold it all, it continues to shout. It is alive, separately from the thinking mind.
I find that I am in a masculine phase. Every muscle must show firmness and strength. The acquisition of material wealth has become important. And, suddenly, I long for my father’s approval. Not in the way a daughter would receive it, but a son. I want his acknowledgment and praise.
I understand that he has everything to do with the emotional disturbance within me. For this reason, it feels as though I should be above seeking anything from him. Still a further cause of confusion, is how I have come to loathe all other men.
Why is it so easy for me to lose my place? And must I make it so obvious that I am desperate to make my way home?
Just hours ago, while walking my dear Frankie, I stopped to examine the scene of an accident. A car had driven straight through a neighbor’s home, killing two female passengers. Only the driver survived. I looked on as if I had a right. As if the directions to a permanent state of freedom, could be found among the bloodstains. Why must I look at everything so intently?