Little rant about my present work

I was always well pissed off. Or, as my son says, solemn.

I am not sure how to take it all. It is so odd to do something I love, translate a book, and the idea is amazing, translating the book of my father’s life.
However as I read through the first Book, and that’s even before I get to the point where I come in, I go through  all the conflicting emotions. I see his harshness, his lack of ability of learning lessons. I see his judging of others, and how that didn’t stop when he had children, quite the opposite.
I imagine myself through his eyes, his distaste of emotional people, and I was emotional, oh I sure was. I would yell in my parents’ face “LOVE ME!!!!” (It didn’t take.)
I see the bitterness of dreams fulfilled and a will that wanted to crush everything and everybody despite coming from a base of a good heart. He was merciless. That is the best word to describe it. Uncompassionate. No compassion. No heart for others.
Somehow my older siblings learnt to survive within it, or perhaps they too, to some extent, are like that?
I can see aspects of that in me, in my past, in moments. The complete and utter cold. I am the best one to stick with in a real crisis, I will always be super calm and cool and get us out of whatever situation we are in. I certainly got that from my dad. But my heart had nowhere, is it any wonder as soon as I was exposed to people I started to virtually BEG for love? I was prostituting myself, abundantly, in exchange for that coin, the hug, the physical contact. God how predictable and stupid.
And my aim, one of my most important goals ever, was for my kids NEVER to feel anything BUT love and acceptance. So far I think, I hope, it has worked. I think they know now, what everyone always needs, is to feel that SOMEONE loves them. If you’re lucky enough for that to be a parent, you will most likely be better adjusted as an adult.
I look at my kids and I can’t get my head around how cool (as in good people) they are, compared to bad, bad chaotic and troublesome me.
But, at the age of 75, my father has learnt so little. I say that but actually in the past 5 years he seems to have mellowed greatly, but still, I wouldn’t know, as I see him once every 3 years or so.
One thing he did write to me, a few years ago, when I was in full crisis and a few months after my second suicide planning (which he didn’t know about): “I wish I had been more like you. More compassionate, more loving.”. Ah yes, better late than never.
Compassion. Mercy. We none of us are perfect, we all fuck up. Even my ex husband: he can never come near us again, but I feel nothing but sorrow for him, for his bipolar constancy of hell. But him I will deal with later on.