Posted by Atticus on August 22, 2004, at 22:09:40
In reply to Re: poem ... Chocolate Milk, posted by Jai Narayan on August 22, 2004, at 20:56:44
I don't know if we first-borns get the lion's share of the crazy genes or not, but my empirical experience with my father's family -- the one that passes the illness down its bloodline -- does bear this out. My father and all five of his siblings suffer (or suffered) from depression, alcoholism, and in my dad's case, bi-polar disorder, where his mania manifested itself in these towering rages. But the worst of the bunch, by all accounts, was my uncle Johnny, who died before I was born, and was, like me, the eldest kid. His fury was truly monstrous. He died in the hospital the night before he was supposed to have heart surgery, and his wife confided to my mother that she was so relieved he was gone, that living with him was hellish. My father told me a story about how Johnny killed their younger brother Frankie's dog with an ax, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Every description I've heard of him paints him as a sociopath. My grandfather on my dad's side, also the eldest son, may have been bi-polar, judging from stories about his actions. But it's impossible to say for sure; it is apparent that he was mentally ill, and although my recollections of him from my childhood are pretty hazy, I do remember some kind of ruckus erupting everytime he came into the room while we were visiting. I was really afraid of that man. My primary visual of him is his bloodshot eyes practically bulging out of his head. Eventually he became so agoraphobic, he never left home. My dad isn't far from reaching that point himself these days. In the brief time since he retired from law, his psychological deterioration has been accelerating dramatically. This is the reason he wasn't there for the meal I described at my sister's house. He never came to see me in the psych ward, either -- the only member of my family who didn't. My parents are still living under the same roof in the Jersey suburbs, but it's hardly what I'd call a marriage any more. They keep separate bedrooms and barely interact. She cooks his meals but that's about it. Whenever any of us kids go out there to see my mom and save her the train ride into the city, he retreats upstairs, locks the door to his bedroom, and doesn't come out until we leave. While I was in the hospital, according to my mother, he did once come downstairs while my sister was sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, unaware that she was visiting. He started cursing at my sister, and she stood up and yelled that he was the reason I was so screwed up, then took off one of her high heels and threw it at him, pegging him in the forehead but not doing any damage. When my mother told me about this on my first night home, the ward, which I'd been working so hard to get released from, suddenly didn't seem so bad. I think the saving grace for me was the presence of both my mother and Na growing up, who together acted as a kind of bulwark against my dad's instability. It was after Na died of cancer that the physical confrontations between me and my father began. Na had seen some really tough times and didn't take any crap from him, and would have literally killed him if he'd struck her daughter in front of her. I really wish I'd had a chance to know Na's husband, my grandfather John, who worked in a paint factory on Staten Island, but died of cancer before I was born. My uncle Jack (mom's older brother and my godfather) always told me I was a dead ringer for their father. Grandpa John was supposed to have been very laid back, an attribute that I certainly envy. Ta. :) Atticus
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URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/381061.html