In the Airport

 Well… what do you know!! They have free wireless connection
here, at the Florida airport, so I was able to paste in ALL my new
Muffet entries.  I noticed, too, that I got a note asking why
Muffet looked updated but no one could see it, but I had updated
w/private entiries cuz I had changed names… oops, they’re going to
board… pasting in my 4/11/05 notes…

Transcribed from my notebook:
4/11/05
On the plane
to Florida and feeling rather peaceful thinking incessantly about my
therapist (John)/”Dad” (Muffet Dad)/my husband. I am supposing this is
a good thing since the fruit
of it is good and since, ultimately, I am also thinking incessantly
about God or about the nature of Him, I guess; about all the ways I’ve
probably gotten “Him” wrong through the years and now I’m replacing
those ways with ways that are probably more actually God-like.

*Notes
I wanted to make to myself: When I said “talking about trivia,” last
week in therapy, it wasn’t so much that I believed John’s health issues
were trivia but that my rooted base assumption was that he wouldn’t
discuss anything with me that WASN’T really trivial. Would he? Is that
against the rules? I mean a therapist and a patient can’t REALLY have a
meaningful relationship; they can only have a fake one, right? A
therapeutic one, correct? The relationship is really all one-sided,
like synthetic blood in a blood transfusion (if there was such a thing
yet – but I know they’re working on it). It will keep you alive and
allow you to function. It will work like blood, but it probably won’t
taste salty.

And, realistically, how could a therapist actually
have a real relationship with each and every one of his patients? What
kind of burden would that place on a person because in real life we
have relationships with others at various levels on the food chain,
those who teach us things and give us strength and those who draw from
us and sap our strength. I don’t want to sound bitter, but I’m a little
mad that I have to buy my relationship via insurance co-pay and a
second job at Starbucks because somehow I either didn’t get an
appropriate one from my father when I was growing up (which I suspect
is the problem) or because I have some sort of character flaw or defect
that makes me unable or unappealing enough to attract a strengthening
relationship (which I fear is the problem).

I’m scared. Will
nothing ever be enough for me? I like having John’s attention. It’s
very nice. I love having his focus on me for a full hour every week or
two. Am I selfish? Probably. Self-centered? Definitely.

I think
about him incessantly. And I guess it’s not even him. I want a daddy –
MY daddy that I’m making up in my book – strong, human, gentle, loving
and so so wise, full of humor, kind, someone to whom I am special,
someone who lets me know the sun rises and sets with me. Someone who
quietly protects me, who I know thinks about what’s best for me and who
patiently puts up with me. Someone who is indulgently amused by my
prissiness and someone who appreciates me. Someone who is a little awed
by me because he is silly and blinded by love for me. Someone who
doesn’t want to have sex with me yet sees me as a vibrant and
attractive woman for someone else. I want a dad.

I want John
Bozeday, Atticus Finch, Chevy Chase from the Vacation Movies and Jesus
all rolled into one man. Someone tall and graceful like John with his
eyes and compassion and his ability to empathize and experience my pain
right along with me. Someone with the devotion and dignity of Atticus
Finch, determined to raise his children with the correct values and
external sense of rightness. Someone solid and right like Atticus. And
someone who will forgive like Jesus does so you know you will never be
sent away. Someone who will always bid you to come to him for rest, who
will bring you peace and security and who will come and comfort your
heart. But still I want someone endearing like Chevy Chase in the
National Lampoon movies who will wear goofy tourist clothes or put up a
million Christmas lights and be human and funny. Someone who cares
about family traditions, who is sentimental and soft-hearted and wants
his family to love him. Someone who is not so dignified he won’t make
silly mistakes and embarrass us in front of our friends. Someone who is
never too grown up to take delight in the immature and corny things in
life. This… this would be the perfect earthly dad for me – not just
anybody, but for me. I want him.

But, you know, even if I
couldn’t have all that – even if I could have had my OWN dad – if he
could have just sat out on the patio with me and had a drink and looked
me in the eyes when we talked (BOTH of us talked, not just him), about
all sorts of things. If he had cared about what I said too and if he
would have looked at me as if he loved me and hugged me spontaneously
and took me places and introduced me proudly to people saying, “This is
my daughter,” I think I would have been happy with that.

If I
could have felt the freedom to touch his face or move his glasses, if
he would have been accessible – that would have been dad enough for me.