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.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
A Bit Extreme
He told me he had been tired of life since life began. He said he had learned early that while others were eager to trust he never could, and that eventually the prospect of well-being was more terrifying than the familiar depression that hovered around him. As a longtime member of the Depression Club I understood, though it sounded a bit extreme, which is how depression is.
Labels:
anxiety,
depression,
empathy,
fear,
therapy,
trust,
understanding
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