Tonight it is difficult to write. Tonight it is difficult not to write. I will write about my depression and the unexpressed rage that lies beneath it.
Tonight I am very angry as my sisters and Mother and Aunt plan my Father’s funeral.
I am not interested in good theatre- for the nieces and nephews to share their gifts of song and rapping. I have nothing against song and rapping. It is simply not something that my father would have wanted. After all, he was a very elegant man.
He was moved by the presicion of language, by the solving of a conundrum of any kind. He was skilled at many things. No one skill captured his attention foxr long.
If I had to guess, I would say that my father probably suffered from bi-polar disorder and attention deficit disorder.
He committed heinous acts, but I believe those acts were a reflection of what was done to him. Under neath all of that he was a stylish elegant man, at times a very nice man and even a good father.
We as a culture must acknowledge that mental illness is an illness of the brain. There is nothing to be ashamed about.We are not ashamed of our defective immune systems that cause us allergies.
Yet we are ashamed of our mental illnesses. We treat them as something to hide and not to mention in public. I think people would more readily admit that they have a sexually transmitted disease than to admit that they suffer from depression.
My substance abuse was linked to my depression. It was not an excuse for my addiction, but it was a factor.
Depression is inherited. 40% of the people who suffer from depression inherited it. The other 60% percent the source is “environmental.”
I want a very simple ceremony for my father. I donot want a preacher to speak at my father’s funeral. My father was not a fan of organized religion, but he would accept a prayer of goodwill and yes love.
The Addict Writes