我不知道我的感觉对不对，我总有我爸最近在和Daiga争夺我的注意力的感觉，不知道Daiga有没有觉察到，但我有感觉到一些端倪。刚来的时候，我爸每天好像很开心、又做饭、我们到处出去做不同的事情，不管是音乐会、还是当代艺术馆、又或者是我带Moira去看兽医、Moira把医生和助手打趴下，他都觉得很有趣。但自从最近我开始成天在家大写特写、大读特读、大看特看之后，我在自己房里、宛如叛逆青春期的女生一样，成天抽烟、大声放音乐、只在吃饭的时候出房间，后来吃饭的时候也不出了。我总是想，等我这段写完、读完、看完、想玩、做完，才想出去吃东西。而且我向来不按照三餐吃，我饿了就吃，不饿就不吃。我爸开始对这样的行为颇有想法，刚开始天天催、顿顿催，我说，如果你来这里、给我的生活造成了麻烦，那你确实应该回去。因为我以为你是来照顾最近三个月没有自理能力的我的，不是来给我造成更深程度的焦虑的。写作正在帮我走出来，这才是第一优先级。我也解释了我不需要三顿按时，我觉得偶尔不吃更轻松。

我以为他理解了，结果他不断的提这件事。一下子对蔬菜吃少了有想法，一会盐又放多了、糖也放多了，任何的单糖是不摄取的，但苹果得吃。我不理解，果糖怎么就不是糖了？还有乳糖已被分解的牛奶，那不也是单糖吗。再说了，双糖单糖区别很大吗？我不懂有机化学，但我想基本的常识还是有的。我不知道怎么跟他解释，难道要我说，你傻逼，你啥都不懂，能不能闭嘴？我本打算仔细思考了一下这样说是否得体，但等我反应过来的时候，我已经说出口了。我立刻顾左右而言他，但我相信他听到了。

事实上，我以前说过很多更重的话、他也说过很多更重的话。我们唯一在对方身上使用语言的方式也就是互相伤害、或是带有目的，表达、沟通、情感传递似乎不是我理解范围里语言的功能之三。今天，他说明天要走了，做一些菜我们冷藏。他做了一天菜，第五次提起让我们每周末花一天的时间做一周的菜，我说，我知道，不想。他接着说，我觉得是你的思想没转过来，吃饭是最重要的事情。我说，我真的不需要转，我宁愿出去吃。他还不停，但你吃的没营养！我当时就，啊？你拿你的食品卫生，和我的食品卫生比？我不知道如何回复。我说，我听到了，你说了好多次了，我每次都听到了，真的不用再说了。

他：你不能堵住我的嘴。

我：我不是堵住你的嘴，你一样的事情如果说超过三次，不是自由表达了，是骚扰。

他：骚扰？（笑）

我：那可不是吗。你说超过一遍就是骚扰了，我真的记得。 

我立刻从冰箱接完水走开，留他一个人接着做预制菜。我回到房间跟Daiga说这件事，他一脸困惑。过了半小时，没来由的，他突然说，我觉得你爸是想要你记得他做的菜，不想你忘记他。

我：我不给一坨屎。

大河：我知道你不给。 

我: 我要开始写东西了，你能闭嘴吗。

Daiga: Yes…..

正如我前面说，和泉桑总让我觉得她在跟我“雌竞”，谁更会做菜？谁更会做家务？谁更会照顾Daiga？我真的他妈不给一坨屎，能闭嘴吗？她问daiga，我是不是太凶，太bossy，太demanding。Daiga说，没啊。她震惊。我当时，我才震惊好吗？什么狗屁问题？但现在我发现，好像我爸也在和Daiga竞争。我有发现好几次了，不太可能是完全偶然。

家里有俩男人，作为女性的我应该感到很不自在，但我其实觉得比和Daiga两个人住的时候可能更自在、但也更不自在。更自在是因为，他俩总喜欢一起在客厅里，一个做饭、一个看电脑上不知道看什么，我自己在自己的房间里，没人打扰。我很庆幸我爸可以占用Daiga的注意力，不然我这段时间效率也不会这么高。更别说，我爸还包办了一天三餐、出门买菜、run dishwasher、丢垃圾等家庭责任。没错，在这之前，这些事基本我得督促Daiga做，或者就是我自己做。因为我真的很讨厌催别人，我觉得费力（没错，我做制片的，我就是讨厌催人；也讨厌被催），但没办法的时候，还是得催。不自在的原因是，抬头不见低头见，之前偶尔Daiga去上班，我至少可以自己待着，现在家里24小时有人，我有点受不了了。我感觉自己已经开始失去思考的空间，好像我的自由已经开始被限制在我自己的房间里。只要一出房间门，我就会被我爸一串串的独白攻击、我全程一句不说，他也可以从我出房间门到回房间期间一直不停嘴，甚至我回去了，他还在说。我不理解。他是有什么感知障碍吗？那个年代的人都有感知障碍吗？是自我保护的coping mechanism吗？

我是个可以非常敏感的人，但整体基调是粗糙。我觉得安全的时候会粗糙，我感觉不安的时候会敏感。但我爸似乎不是敏感不敏感的问题，他似乎整个人没有正确感知周遭环境的能力。他的感觉、或者从感觉获得的结论总是向外投射原因的，归咎于非个体本身原因的，极度缺乏对自己的理解。比如我忙自己喜欢的事情，他觉得被冷落、但却找借口是因为我太不经常出门运动、所以他想让我出门。买东西也模棱两可，他自己说可以用翻译软件和别人沟通，说的信誓旦旦，但一旦需要往返几次、他就开始不耐烦，泄气。如果我在的话，他肯定就把所有的事情甩我身上，让我解决。但我不去了。我让他们俩自己去。一边声称自己是很强的硬件工程师，一边装灯泡只有零线、火线、和地线三根线加一个开关，也弄了快两个星期才搞定。电脑硬件比这复杂百倍，我现在很怀疑他所谓硬件工程师的含金量，可能只是个没有上手、只谈生意的虚名。

I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I keep getting the feeling that my dad is recently competing with Daiga for my attention. I’m not sure if Daiga has picked up on it, but I’ve sensed some signs. When my dad first arrived, he seemed genuinely happy—cooking meals, going out with us to all kinds of things, concerts, contemporary art museums, or even when I took Moira to the vet and she knocked both the doctor and the assistant to the ground—he found it all amusing. But ever since I started spending all day writing, reading, watching, and rewatching stuff at home, I’ve basically been holed up in my room like a rebellious teenage girl—chain-smoking, blasting music, only coming out for meals, and later not even showing up for meals. I always think, once I finish writing this, or reading this, or watching this, or playing this, or doing this, then I’ll come out to eat. I’ve never eaten according to a three-meal schedule—I eat when I’m hungry, and I don’t when I’m not. My dad started having a lot of opinions about this. At first, he nagged every day, at every meal. I said: if you came here just to make my life harder, then you really should go back. I thought you came here to take care of me—someone who hasn’t been able to take care of herself for three months—not to add another layer of anxiety to my life. Writing is what’s helping me recover right now. That’s the top priority. I also explained that I don’t need three scheduled meals, and honestly, skipping a meal sometimes feels more relaxing.

I thought he got it—but he kept bringing it up. Suddenly it’s about how I’m not eating enough vegetables. Then it’s that there’s too much salt, too much sugar. He insists no simple sugars are allowed—but I have to eat apples. I don’t get it—how is fructose not sugar? And what about lactose, which is already broken down in milk—isn’t that still a simple sugar too? And anyway, is there really that much difference between disaccharides and monosaccharides? I don’t know organic chemistry, but I feel like I at least have basic common sense. I didn’t know how to explain this to him. Am I supposed to say, you’re a fucking idiot, you don’t know anything, can you please shut up? I was actually trying to think about whether saying that would be inappropriate—but before I could finish that thought, it was already out of my mouth. I immediately changed the subject, but I’m pretty sure he heard it.

To be honest, we’ve both said much worse to each other in the past. The only way we’ve ever used language with one another is to hurt, or to achieve some goal. Expression, communication, emotional connection—those don’t really fall into the category of what I think language is for, between us. Today, he said he’s leaving tomorrow, and he made some food to refrigerate. He cooked all day. For the fifth time, he brought up how we should use one weekend day a week to prep all the meals for the coming week. I said, I know. I don’t want to. Then he said, “I think your mindset hasn’t shifted yet. Eating is the most important thing.” I said, “I really don’t need to shift it. I’d rather eat out.” He wouldn’t stop. “But what you’re eating isn’t nutritious!” I was like—Huh? You’re comparing your food safety standards to mine?I didn’t know how to respond. I said, “I heard you. You’ve said this so many times. I’ve heard it every time. You really don’t need to say it again.”

Him: “You can’t stop me from speaking.”

Me: “I’m not stopping you. But if you say the same thing more than three times, it’s no longer free expression. It’s harassment.”

Him: “Harassment?” (laughs)

Me: “Isn’t it? Once you say something more than once, it’s harassment. I do remember.”

I immediately walked away after filling my water bottle at the fridge, leaving him to finish prepping the food alone. I went back to my room and told Daiga what happened. He looked puzzled. Half an hour later, out of nowhere, he suddenly said, “I think your dad just wants you to remember the food he made for you. He doesn’t want you to forget.”

Me: I don’t give a shit.

Daiga: I know you don’t.

Me: I’m going to start writing. Can you shut up.

Daiga: Yes….

Like I said earlier, Izumi-san always gave me the feeling that she was in some kind of “female rivalry” with me. Who’s the better cook? Who’s better at doing housework? Who takes better care of Daiga? I seriously don’t give a flying fuck. Can she just shut the hell up? She once asked Daiga if I was too harsh, too bossy, too demanding. Daiga said, “No.” She was shocked. I was like—I’m the one who should be shocked. What kind of bullshit question is that? But now I’m starting to realize—maybe my dad is also competing with Daiga. I’ve noticed it a few times. It’s probably not just a coincidence.

You’d think that having two men in the house would make me, as a woman, feel uncomfortable. But honestly, I actually feel more at ease than when it was just me and Daiga—yet also somehow less at ease. More at ease because the two of them love hanging out together in the living room—one cooking, the other watching God knows what on his laptop—and I get to stay in my room, completely undisturbed. I’m honestly grateful that my dad can occupy Daiga’s attention, or else I probably wouldn’t have been this productive lately. Not to mention, my dad has taken over all the household duties: cooking three meals a day, grocery shopping, running the dishwasher, taking out the trash. Yep. Before this, it was usually me reminding Daiga to do those things—or just doing them myself. And I hate reminding people. It drains me. (Yes, I’m a producer. And yes, I hate chasing people. I also hate being chased.) But when there’s no choice, I still end up doing it.

What makes me feel less at ease is the constant presence. We’re always in each other’s line of sight. At least when Daiga occasionally went to work, I could be by myself. But now someone’s always home, 24/7, and I’m starting to lose it. I feel like I’m losing the space to think. Like my freedom is now confined to the four walls of my bedroom. The moment I step out of my room, I get hit with my dad’s barrage of monologues. I don’t say a word, and he still keeps talking nonstop from the moment I leave my room to the moment I walk back in. And even after I’ve gone back in, he’s still talking. I don’t get it. Does he have some kind of sensory processing issue? Do people from that generation all have sensory issues? Is it some kind of self-protective coping mechanism?

I’m someone who can be extremely sensitive—but my default mode is actually rough around the edges. When I feel safe, I become rough. When I feel unsafe, I become sensitive. But with my dad, I don’t think it’s a matter of sensitivity or insensitivity. It’s like he fundamentally lacks the ability to accurately perceive his surroundings. His feelings—or the conclusions he draws from them—are always externally projected, always blaming factors outside of himself, with almost zero self-awareness. For example, when I’m busy doing things I love, he feels neglected. But instead of naming that, he says it’s because I don’t go outside enough, so he wants me to get out more. When he goes shopping, it’s all vague and wishy-washy—he claims confidently that he can communicate with people using translation apps, swears he’s got it covered, but the moment he has to go back and forth a few times, he gets impatient and deflated. And if I happen to be there, he’ll absolutely dump everything on me and expect me to handle it. But I’m done. I told them to go themselves.

This is a guy who claims to be a strong hardware engineer—and yet when it came to installing a light fixture, with only three wires (live, neutral, and ground) and a switch, it took him nearly two weeks to get it working. Computer hardware is a hundred times more complex than that. At this point, I seriously doubt the so-called credibility of his “hardware engineer” title. He might just be one of those guys who never actually worked hands-on and only talked business. A paper tiger in a lab coat.