How long?
I think it's been almost 20 years.
How about 20 years?
I've been dreaming about having sex with my father.
How often do you dream like that?
About once a year, since I was about 11, this year I'm 29.
Are you ashamed in your dreams?
Yes, sometimes shame.
Was there anyone else in the dream?
Yeah, sometimes my mother's around, but we're still here.
Were you forced or happy in your dreams?
I think, in dreams, my genitals are mostly fallen.
Why are these dreams happening?
I'm sorry, I don't know why.
Pain?
Yeah, I'm in pain and confused.
Who is my father? Is he the maker of my childhood trauma? Or is it my fantasy? Is it important to clarify the reality? Yes, it is. What is it? Is it a sexual trauma or a sexual fantasy? Is memory a fact? Can I tell the difference between dream and reality? How am I supposed to live with myself every time I wake up? In reality, how should I face my late father? How can we respond to his daily deep and diligent care?
What kind of man is he?
Caution, sensitivity, suspicion, intelligence, in my cousin's words, social, handsome, many admirers, and, of course, one of the most important features - love me.
When I was in high school, my father was driving me to and from school every day, and now my classmates are talking about your dad. How good is it? I walked down the road and his shoelaces were loose, and he came down to tie my shoelaces, and I was tired, and I came home to burn my feet, to wash my feet, and even massage my body, of course, in a layer of clothing.
Unfortunately, in my memory, no one else saw these wonderful things. I remember only those violent acts with blood, accompanied by his incalculable dark and disgusting behaviour. In the years when his political career was permanently suspended, he was like an angry lion, preaching his territory over and over and over again, keeping no one from being near, and like rats in a gutter, living under the dark roof of a house where his body was torn apart and left to the wind and rain. The suffocating so-called "love", like to tie you to the ground, to be judged and ravaged by God, of course, is certainly his role, yes, and he wants his daughter to be his own, and I am sick of him every time he looks at the prisoner's eyes and reveals his love, which threatens his own soul.
When I was about 10 years old, one night I was trapped in my parents' big bed, and grown-ups played cards in the guest room while I was sleeping. And behold, I was awakened with one hand, and his hand was scoffing at my lips, and he rose up and walked out of the way, and I saw a familiar cut off, and his contours were strangled by the white light of the outside house. Yes, it was there, and I was able to judge. Who's that? Is that him or my mom? Is he here to play cards? No, that figure is so familiar.
I couldn't think back, so I decided to rationalize the memory, and that day I didn't recognize who it was, Mom or my dad, or should I be bold enough to do that? That day, the man came to help me cover the covers, not to put his hand in the covers, not to mention to the private parts. So, at last, thanks to my efforts, half of the mark was wiped off by rubber and scattered in pieces.
But this memory is so real that I can't erase it easily. I can even remember the moment I saw his clipping.
"So what do you remember? It's just your fantasy!" That's the kind of voice that always echoes in my head. Was I eager to have sex with my father? If that's the case, I'm happy and I'm open to it because I'm not him.
But if the truth is what you and I thought? If it was him that night, what would I do? How to rationalize my relationship with him? How to rationalize my father? How to survive?
That year, when I was a minor at the end of my high school exam, I was influenced by some sort of art-forward magazine, and I started to admire the freedom of underwear and become used to "naked run," of course, when my breasts had grown. It was the summer I had just learned to drive, and I was sitting on the main wheel and I was wearing a seatbelt, and his hand was reaching out, and he moved on my back, and he touched my bra. Later, I told my mother, who laughed, "Your father just likes to mind if you wear socks and bras. Later, he tried to slap me on the back, and every time I walked side by side, I followed the marks of his finger movement, and he never dared to "check" my back button because I grew up and he wouldn't do it? Or is it for a man to put her hand in any corner of the woman's back enough to judge if she's wearing a bra?
And then I grew up and grew up like he couldn't control it, and then we had a little bit of a regular family, but most of the time, every call I made to him showed that I hesitated, that I was sick, that I could not overcome, that I didn't know how to handle it. And then, after a very serious illness, when we came to Beijing for treatment and stayed in a hotel room, nothing happened to us, except that year after year, the dream of subversive ethics, where year after year, reminded me that I had pains and obstacles that I could never cross.
I went to the hospital the other day, and the doctor told me that my vagina was full of viruses and that it was widespread. I'd like to ask the doctor to cut off my vagina with a pair of scissors on my lips and to go straight to my womb. So that all evil will be scattered away, and I will castrate myself, with the mutilation of my body.
The Self-Reflection Programme is a deep-seated self-discovery that encompasses the value and organization of personal memory, dreams and various life-story pieces. Through this plan, we hope to join you in building a shared collective unconscious that will allow us to travel together in an infinite ocean. The plan encourages us to look back at our experiences and to combine the fragmented memories and dreams into a meaningful story in order to better understand ourselves, their past and their future. By sharing and sharing these precious pieces, we can build deeper links and jointly explore the complexity and beauty of human life.
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