My Origin Story; NOW… 5 years into the making of TMFRs.
Five years ago I sat on the woodland-themed, chunky-legged, Americana-colored collosal bed in the guest room of my roommate's parents' lakehouse, near Tallulah Gorge, GA. Sobbing. Journal open. Wave after wave of emotion and epiphany slamming into my core. Twisting my spirit. Flipping my perpective. Opening doors to rooms inside of myself that had been long-ago nailed shut, rusted into place, and forgotten.
Suddenly, I was seeing it. All of it.
The ways my early life shaped my later fuckups. The ways my fuckups were not stories of victimhood and predation, but, actually, remnants of childhood, repeated by yours truly. The ways I was roughly formed, tossed into the world, and recreating the same tumultuous circumstances that had sculpted this personality system in the first place. The ways I was in some part responsible for the dramatic explosions in recent years, in subtle ways.
And I had a story to tell.
It went like this.
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My father was an aggressive, domineering,...
