My father. Strict and blocked. He is an artist. he will not admit it even to this day.

So many different memories come up when I think of my father. His sternness. His anger.His drinking and pilling. His cheating and tearing up the family over and over again.

I wonder often if he is the reason I have a hard time believing in the ‘family unit’. That term seems false to me. Restrictive. Keeping people from claiming themselves, for the better of the unit. Shells. Shells are what they become and I fear I may be one as well.

My father loves to ponder and draw. But thinks it silly to allow such gifts for himself. I did not grasp this when I was younger. I thought he was mean and powerful. I thought he hated me. Wished for the life when I did not tie him down.

I pulled this picture out the other day. I am beginning to look back at where I came from. Admit to my adult self what I have lived through and how to see all I have changed. Not just for myself but for future generations. My daughter finds it completely acceptable to call yourself an artist. A word that would have brought about immense laughter in my house growing up. Not because they didnt really think we were but because it would have meant they could call themselves such things.

Today I am reminded of the amazing possibility for the soul to change. I have changed and I can accept my family unit and invest great deals of creativity and emotion into this dream as well. . . I was not taught to be happy so this will be hard but I am ready. . . I accept I am still ggrrRoo00OOWING.

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