Written in an airport in 2009. Part one here. Part two here.

I tune into the fact that there has been a flute playing in the terminal the whole time I’ve been sitting here. The acoustics are horrendous and the player is noodling about, only playing bits and pieces of songs. Now that I hear it, I can’t stop and it’s bonking at my brain in a not-pleasant fashion.

If you were to randomly crack one of my teenage journals, in which I wrote daily from age 13 to 18, you would most likely find a rant about my father, and often, about his flute playing. He practiced every night. He wasn’t the best. After he married my stepmom, who was a very talented musician, they would duet (her on piano) every night. Every. Night.

I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy that echoey twirting and tweeping, but I wonder if I’m extra annoyed because of the association with my father. Psychology 101.

I know that I’ve had a tendency to dissolve into anxiety-fueled tears when I hear classical music (Mozart and Bach, mostly) played at top volume. I don’t encounter that situation often, thankfully. Big, dramatic symphonies, cranked to 11 on the hi-fi, was the soundtrack to my parent’s madness. As they descended into their dark days before the end of their marriage — two giant, tortured Ids — they matched the interior drama with the exterior. Perhaps it was a twisted attempt to cover up their shameful behavior from their only child left in the house, a poor, tortured 10-year-old.

Ugh. I’m about to go away on vacation. I need to stop the dwelling. So much dwelling I do.

I remember a thought I had last night, just before drifting off to sleep. I had a spark of gratitude for the people in my life. Reconnecting with Christine for coffee. Shooting the shit with the pals at the theatre. I related a very gruesome story to them — a terrible accident that I had at 14. It’s not often something I’ve shared, as it’s a painful memory on a lot of levels. But I said it with such ease, and my friends listened with interest and compassion. It was no big deal.

It’s like I took a bat and just knocked a ghost, right out of the park.

That’s been happening lately. Stuff that I hesitated to talk about, I can talk about now. Removing the power from these memories, these demons, these ghosts.

I hope this continues. If this is what getting older is about, then I’m all for it.