They fuck you up your mum and dad, wrote one of my favorite poets Philip Larkin. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra just for you.
Do your parents fuck you up? On purpose? By accident? Benign neglect? Intrusiveness? Abandonment? Smothering? Guilt? Disapproval? Rejection? Death of Salesman? Do you write in spite of them? Because of them? To escape from them? To hide? To reinvent? To damn them? To love them? Are they the source of your strength, your creativity, your discipline? Your gift? Are you the whistle blower? THe ticking bomb? Mommy Dearest? Do you write out of pain? Are you lonely, lonely, lonely? Will you never be good enough? Are those your parents sitting in the auditorium as you collect your national book award? Is your dad wearing a knit tie? Is he eager to get the car and get back to New Jersey? Mom loves you but hasn’t read your book, can’t really approach it. She is very proud but is fixated on the girl two rows up whose neck is covered in an enormous butterfly tattoo. What kind of a family could she be from?
Did they fuck you up?
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