“If you want something badly enough, you can make it happen.” It’s not true, at least when it comes to memory. There’s always some inconvenient truth-teller, correcting the re-written version of the past that you’ve authored. I’ve wondered often if you’re in denial, or if you really believe it. Are you that insecure? That fragile? That crazy? Re-framing is one thing, but painting over the canvas doesn’t change what’s underneath.

You tell us we are lying, that it was never like we say. You tell us that we are ungrateful. And it’s not true. We are grateful, because despite all the rest, we made it out of childhood as OK as anyone can reasonably expect. And we know that you believed that you loved us. Intent counts for something, even if what it’s always been about is your narcissism and self-absorption, your need to be seen as a “good person”.

But you’re the one who’s lying. You’re lying to yourself because you don’t want to know that you should have done more, tried harder, stopped looking inward and acted to do what you could for us, rather than spent all the years feeling sorry for yourself. And telling us it’s the truth won’t work. And now you’re lying about other things, because you like the mania, and you feel every bit of the self you imagine yourself to be. You’re denying that your behavior is manic, because if you admit that you are, then the feeling of worth isn’t real, and you have to re-paint the canvas again.

I feel sorry for you in some ways, because it must be exhausting, needing to re-write everything to define yourself in your favored purple prose. I feel sorry for you for not being able to admit your mistakes, much less learn from them. But you can’t make me admit that what happened didn’t, and you can’t make me tell you lies that will make you feel better. My canvas is worn in places, scarred in others, but the entire work is there for me to understand, and the total picture teaches me something new every time I look at it.