I mention these things to explain the gap in my childhood where a father figure should have been, and my lifelong difficulties with exerting even a tiny amount of self-discipline. The thing is, I could never identify with a figure who had any real authority. My mother was the one with the authority, but because it wasn’t real authority, she always exercised it in that ambiguous way women do, ambiguous and arbitrary, and exaggerated, over-the-top, hysterical, when a bit of love and intelligence would have sufficed. And this authoritarianism has evidently become a part of me, judging by how I treat myself when I want to be more disciplined; as some of my friends have pointed out, I turn into a kind of fascist sergeant. Without achieving a great deal, of course, which is always the way with illegitimate authority.