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, October 22, 2015
Relapse
Here he comes. After a brief visit to wellness, he is back to be sure he will be welcome in the madness. Though it is a sad place it is also familiar, but maybe this will be the last time back. Maybe it will not be as familiar as he had hoped, as comforting as he recalled. He may not unpack, much less settle in. Perhaps, this time the madness will not seem like home.
Labels:
addiction,
being well,
familiarity,
home,
hope
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