i came home alternately relieved and dismayed to find my father was here. he handed me yet another newspaper clipping to read and i tried to stifle an irritated heavy sigh.
but, oh, if i hadn't taken that clipping in hand!
before today i'd never heard of william styron and only had a passing acquaintance with "sophie's choice", perhaps his best known work. and yet i feel as if he is the only person in the world who really understands me. too bad he's long gone.
what my father handed me was an edited excerpt of an op-ed piece he wrote when i was 7-years-old
, before i had a clue as to what depression was because neither myself nor my beloved uncle had begun our battle with the merciless tyrant. this is a sick, sad brotherhood. one i wish i didn't belong to. and it was both a relief and overwhelmingly sad to see myself in this man's words.
my father asked me how this piece related to my experience (the crest of which i am in the midst of riding once again unbeknownst to him because, what's the point in keeping people abreast of my highs and lows when they can change as if by the hour?). i didn't/don't really know how to answer that. i tried my best to be honest but reserved and singled out the comments about sleep. i never made a connection between my (in)ability to sleep and my depression. don't think that i could honestly make one either given that i'm known for being able to sleep at almost anytime. but what i could say, and will continue to say should someone ever make an ignorant comment about depression to me is, what he wrote is as accurate a description as one could ever give. and i wish i could thank him for giving it.