A Legacy of Affliction

The story of one man's struggle with family depression.

By Skip Corsini, published on May 01, 2003 - last reviewed on June 12, 2007

My mother lost her mother at 16, probably to drink. She rarely spoke of her, keeping the shame and loss to herself. She hated the woman her father then married, a feeling we all shared.

My parents were in many ways good people. My father loved his music, liked entertaining my friends, and was extremely well read and intelligent. My mother was extremely kind. She gave me succor when I was sick and gave the neighborhood kids candy all the time. But being a parent was not a natural skill for either of them.

As it did for my parents, life has had its torments for me. I got married way too young the first time. I hurt a perfectly wonderful person who didn't understand she bought damaged goods. For that I feel tremendous sorrow, as I do for my wife today, who has had to live with my distress. Whole decades of my life, my 20s and my 40s, seem to have passed in a blur of denial that I was depressed; I knew something was wrong but could not identify it.

Of all the ironies of my struggle with a legacy of affliction the one that is most vivid is the knowledge that I have had privileges that my forbears did not have in dealing with their personal demons. In addition to a college education, I have an awareness about depression, the education that comes with regular therapy and advancements in medical treatment—gifts that were neither available nor acceptable to them.

Here is perhaps the biggest irony. I feel disloyal to them for exposing their suffering, but compelled to dig up the truth because it is the only way to break the chain of pain and let the healing begin. It is as if I am the designated geologist, working on a difficult excavation, finding things that both encourage and repel me, but recognizing all the while that I am part of a family rich in experience and worthy of study. I am the son of a son of a stonecutter after all.

I see my ancestors in a new way now. I respect how hard they tried to better themselves, often against all odds. I can separate the layers of life that are my legacy and see them with forgiveness, rather than blame them for my problems.

Whatever relief I feel does not come at the expense of those who came before. They were not just damaged people. They were real people with depth and character who were not as equipped to deal with complexity as I now am.

My life today reminds me of a poem by Leonard Cohen:

Ring the bells that still can ring,

Forget your perfect offering,

There's a crack in everything,

That's how the light gets in.