Supping with the Devil

Tonight I am having dinner with my father.

He has been having family therapy. Its that special family therapy, apparently, where only the protagonist attends and his victims are then enticed, like a delicate, terrified moth, into an unseen but deadly web to what is ostensibly a pleasant meal but will, in fact be more of the same. As far as I recall, its only the spider that enjoys the meal - or worse, strikes a deadly wound and savours its victory later.

So, if I am to allow it, I will spend two to three hours looking at his petulant face, pointing out the various pieces of food and sauce stuck in various places on his chin and mouth, and listen to him justify his outrageous behaviour and requests for my own compassion and understanding. Even now, I can feel my shoulders squeezing tight and rising up, my turn down, and all possible responses to his brand of manipulation being made ready.

I am trying to approach this as an adult, when really, no matter how old I am, or wise, or experienced: I am the child of this man. The daughter, the teenager, the toddler, the baby, the newborn. His first born, his precious little girl.

Its the little girl that needs to respond, to be given a voice. She needs to be heard.