He seems more comfortable with his depression than he had been with other feelings. Although it must be as uncomfortable as he says, it may offer a familiarity he finds comforting and the depression fosters a passivity that may be more in line with his way of being. It seems self-reinforcing and maybe the depression has become an obligation as well as a reaction. It is an unhappy home, but having been here so often it is maybe less threatening than other places might be.
There are others settling the same way into their anger. Maybe each person acquires a favored or characterizing feeling, one upon which they can center and by which they define themselves. This happens to the detriment of more thorough and satisfying development as individuals and as members of a society that is not really better for their perfecting of this sad or hostile aspect.
My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
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