When I visited my father the other day I decided to try the video feature of my little digital camera. Dad was in a very good mood. Being in this particular home, where he gets a lot of personal attention, has really helped him a lot. He’s put on weight and his mood has stabilized.
My first exposure to mental illness was shortly after High School when my grandmother had a stroke and was moved to a nursing home near my folk’s house. My memories of my grandmother were not of a warm, fuzzy and kindly old woman. She was crabby until she had her stroke. The stroke rendered her paralyzed on her right side. I don’t know if the stroke changed her personality or if she just realized that she was at the mercy of others now and had better start to be nice.
For those of you who’ve read my posts you know how central the estrangement from my daughter has been to my depression. I can’t think of anything that’s been so painful for so long. When I think I have a handle on it, I’ll read something, hear a song on the radio, someone will ask about her or something else will happen that makes me think of her and the void I have in my heart.
Parental Alienation Syndrome is a controversial diagnosis but after living through my estrangement and coming across PAS on the internet and reading the signs and symptoms, I can tell you it’s absolutely real. It’s one of the worst and most insidious forms of child abuse.
“This buggy sure is a nice ride.” dad said again and again about my truck. It was just last week when I had picked him up for dinner. He was in a good mood and hardly talked at all about mom or his car that night. He sipped on a Scotch and soda while we talked about a lot of different things. He learned to like Scotch when he was in the Army as it was the drink no one else wanted and hence it was plentiful.
When I was running tonight my mind, as usual, was bouncing all around. Somewhere in the flotsam and jetsam of thoughts my dog Marley came to mind. He’s the exact opposite of my other black dog.
We named him Marley because he’s a Rasta dog. Cool and easy going. He’s a very old black dog. He will turn 17 this July. I’ve never had a dog this old. For the last three years it was in the back of my mind that this will be his last Thanksgiving, Christmas, Winter, Spring, etc. but it never was. We should have named him Timex.
People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive . . . ~ Joseph Campbell
Happy Valentine’s Day. Really. I don’t like the holiday all that much either but I do appreciate the sentiment. I just prefer to show my love throughout the year rather than have it forced on me during a holiday.
I’ve been meaning for a long time now to write about love. What having it does to us, how losing it can feed depression and how we can move on . . . but in all honesty I’ve not done a very good job with any of it.
I’ve fallen in love so very deeply that I thought I could die then and there and my life would be complete. Instead the black dog raised its head and made sure that I remained mired in self doubt unable to make a decision or to act. My life would remain incomplete.
