July 29, 2022:
I don't know my daddy.
We met infrequently, and always in a ritualized way.
Games in the park, or bowling; ice cream cones after.
I don't know my mommy.
She was inward: withdrawn into her fantasies.
Artifact of years of childhood abuse: the little girl in the closet.
I don't want to know my daddy.
He chose not to pay his child support, and that's a language.
It says: You're not important to me.
Well, fair enough. You're not important to me, either.
I did want to know my mommy.
I spent years trying to communicate.
Later, in middle adulthood, I tried exceptionally hard.
When that failed I gave up, so that when she died we were all but complete strangers.