Mother and Father in Me

I couldn’t pronounce the word, as if it were stuck inside of me. I was on my feet, surrounded by people. This wasn’t my kind of crowd, although I secretly wanted it to be. They were all psychotherapists, or so I imagined, and I realize that I wanted to write professionals instead of psychotherapists, as if I weren’t one. I grew up in a family of successful professionals, and without being aware of it until now, I’ve enjoyed not being one. I have a vocation. And I’m an editor. My passion is in writing as a therapeutic process. These sentences are in the present tense. I’m watching the words as they appear on the screen. I’m also in the past tense, my narrator represents me, at a lecture that remains unclear to me in my imagination. A psychoanalyst stood at the lectern. I wished I understood more of what she was saying. It had to do with the mother, and with the father, and I remembered that she was a Jungian psychoanalyst and worked in San Francisco. She spoke about archetypes. My first therapist was a Jungian. I’m speaking or writing again as the writer, not the narrator. Perhaps I’m hurrying my narrator. He was attempting to speak in public, to ask the Jungian a question. And the words and images inside of him wouldn’t cooperate. Something in his mind didn’t work. Or maybe that’s what he wanted to think, or what I wanted him to think. My narrator returns, and he seems ready to reach the final word. Finally, I pronounced the word, a series of words, enough to make my question. When I imagine the mother and the father inside of me, am I imagining only my own parents, or also God? Some questions can’t be answered with words.


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