I recently explained my relationship with my father with this metaphor: It’s as if I’m putting a piece of my soul into a vending machine, pressing the button for Cheetos, and instead receiving a pile of dusty bran.

Angry dusty bran.

Angry dusty sentient bran that is somehow also a next-level expert in gaslighting.

My journey to understanding my father first began with therapists, then textbooks, then internet rating scales entitled “He might be a sociopath if…”

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