I laud your efforts on the psychoanalytical poppycock you wanted to pull on me. How my “disturbing” childhood was somehow linked to what made me who I am today. Narcissistic – possibly a sociopath. It’s funny how you learnt all that from Psychology I & II at your community college – seven years ago. The gleam in your eyes as you told me those were the reasons why I needed to be tamed, by you of course. “Morally decrepit”, you said when I voiced an opinion contrary to yours. “No one wants a woman who’s a know-it-all” when I had my nose in a book, soaking in the history of the Rosicrucian Order or my personal favourite, Jewish Mysticism.
Your idea of fun was gambling away our savings on horse racing or cricket. I hate cricket. I never understood it, never will. What the hell is a test match and why did you spend our rent money on it? I begged you to get a job, but the excuse was always your bum leg. That bum leg seemed to work just fine when you went to the pub to drink your frustrations away, or the time you kicked me down half a flight of stairs when I came home with news of my recent promotion
I still think of you sometimes. You taught me, in albeit a horrible way, how to love myself. And that those traits you diagnosed me with? They were a reflection of yourself (Did you learn psychological projection in those classes of yours? Haha).