There are people who recall my father as a saint and a monster. I'm quite sure I will share the same fate.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
I wish people wouldn't think of me as a saint - unless they agree with the definition of a saint that a saint's a sinner who goes on trying.
The real demon in my life is my father.
My father was a monster. A monster! I cut with my family when I was 23 and I never see them again.
My main memories of my father are of his illness.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
I'm not a saint. I'm not an angel. I'm a human being.
I guess I'm way too kind and generous, and a saint - if you can believe that!
I was the big, bossy older sister, full of enthusiasms, mad fantasies, desperate urges to be famous, and anxious to be a saint - a settled sort of saint, not one who might have to suffer or die for her faith.
I had a brother who was my savior, made my childhood bearable.
I don't know whether there is anyone else at all who remembers my noble father with such sadness.