I don’t want to write about men. And, first of all, about parents.
Oil painting: an ideal, pure soul mother who put life on the child, nurtured, nurtured, raised, gave strength and… dad, cruel, authoritarian, tyrant, suffocating and beautiful mother, and trying to break through the asphalt sprout – child.
A child who grew up with such a picture of the world, as if programmed to see only the good in mom and only the bad in dad. And of course all the features that he sees in himself from his mother are correct and wonderful. And all that from the Pope – dirty, unworthy, not having the right to life. Because dad is a fiend, and who wants to be a sinner?
This man rejects not only and not so much the father. He rejects a part of himself. Try to imagine that you cut off one of your hands, or, at least, hide it forever behind your back, tie it so that it does not hang out and show itself – because this hand is not as correct as the other. It’s like she’s compromising you. This is about the body, and about the reasonable part, and the feelings and traits inherent in man. Continue reading