old pictures, new questions

Most of the time, I really don't feel anything. Other times it comes from nowhere. I get so jealous of everyone who has parents that I can't stand it. And I feel miserable and self-pitying and hateful. And it's such a strange, nebulous hate--I had a mother and then I didn't. Had a father, or at least a ghost of him, and now I have a possible. All kept at such a distance.

Found this picture of my mother and I from Christmas, 1993. She looks like herself but not quite. And there I am so small. People always tell me what a sweet child I was. I worry that I'm becoming one of those mean, embittered people. I want to stay sweet but there's so much against me. How earnest how determined I am to stay sweet.

I think about calling William Alexander all the time, but I never find the words. I've got a parent that won't speak to me and an almost-parent that I can't speak to. I don't know where this leaves me. Orphan, bastard, mystery-that-everybody-knows.

Most of the time, I really don't feel anything. Other times, all my hurt blooms into hate and I want to destroy the great maternal effigies.