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.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Living and Dying
He speaks of hating life, saying it has long since stopped being a gift, if ever it had been; but in truth it is only his own life that has become so intolerable. In the lives of others he finds great value, and of them he is more caring. I have felt that way and know it is just beneath the surface so ready to come forward, but I do not experience it with this same despair. While not pursuing death, he would welcome it as a gift -- the gift living was unable to be.
Labels:
depression,
dying,
empathy,
living,
perspective,
sadness,
therapy
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