Newly discovered Thing Not To Do When You Don't Want To Feel Like Seven Shades Of Shit: reading old volleys of e-mails fired off to a parent (and the aunt who tried to mediate) during an apparently rocky portion of the coming-out process. Rosy glasses are a survival mechanism--I recognize that now--that allow us to give people one more chance several times over and several times more than they perhaps deserve, so that we someday might reconcile and content ourselves with hazy notions that it wasn't all that bad.
Hmmm. It was that bad. Nasty, hateful sentiments were expressed that, coming from anyone else, would have seen me not hesitate to lay the motherfucker out who dared say such things about either me or my girlfriend. Not so easy to rip your own dad's throat out, I guess, and it's probably best that way since it leaves the door open for redemption. Which has occurred. Which, to be honest, has occurred to the extent that until this morning I have simply focused on how really very good things are now, managing to forget the depths the whole thing shot me to.
I took a couple of classes in college revolving around how our communication frames our reality. I wonder if taking better notes would have left me better prepared.