I was raised by a mentally ill father.
Because there is comfort in numbers,
I, too, was afflicted by a similar disorder.
It’s difficult to separate the person from the sickness,
Sometimes impossible.
Sometimes we become the shadowy monster,
Embrace it with wilted roses,
Knowing too well that of everything else,
The disorder will still be there,
Waiting.
My shadow has been dormant.
My father’s is still active,
Seeking.
Sometimes when we meet it’s like a perfect storm,
A tornado of comfort.
Someone understands the climate.
I take my father’s hand encouragingly,
He turns to run, squirrely,
The shadow greets me with open arms.
I love the shadow as much as I love the man.
After all, there is comfort in numbers.
abp