The person I imagine myself writing to is a man, and trying to remember a woman I could even imagine in that place has not been fruitful so far. I also feel like it is at least possible to tell my father everything – he might not get it, he may not agree, but at least he would be able to listen, to take it in, consider it. Talking to my mother on the other hand more often than not feels constricting. Like every word has to be weighed, the edges to be considered carefully, most of what I am saying is likely to get lost, and at least some of the rest turned into a weapon against me. What I say to her will never be just ok. Or so it seems to me right now.