1. Childhood and Family Background
I was born into a time of material abundance. I was blessed with both a father and a mother, and I had one younger brother, three years my junior. At birth I weighed over four kilograms—a large baby—but I have been told that I was physically fragile. My mother has told me how severe her morning sickness was when I was in her womb, and that even after I was finally born, my grandmother worried aloud, "Is she still alive?" I was weak, and by all accounts had a quick and fiery temper. There is no doubt that I was a child who required a great deal of care.
Even so, I was the first child in the family, and naturally I was doted on by my parents and warmly cherished by those around us. This can be seen clearly in photographs from my early childhood. Out of their love for me, my parents seem to have done everything they could within their means to provide for me in every possible way.
Because I was physically weak, I frequently ran a fever until I had my tonsils removed in the fourth grade. I now think this may have been one of the reasons my mother was eventually drawn toward religious practices that sought help from forces outside herself—though of course, it was not the only reason.
2. My Father's Illness and the Shadow Over Our Home
The first great burden, and the first key point of my story, was my father's illness.
I remember vividly the time when my father, in the middle of the day, lay under his bedding with the curtains drawn. This was just before I started elementary school, when I was filled with excitement over my brand-new desk. My father was a high school teacher, so it must have been during the spring break. I was in a cheerful mood, enjoying my new desk, my schoolbag, and my colorful stationery, when suddenly my father, still lying down, shouted, "Quiet!" His sharp tone startled me—it was the first time he had ever yelled at me. In hindsight, the rustling noises I made must have echoed painfully in his ears.
From then on, I began to notice that my father's behavior changed in cycles. He would pull the covers over his head, darken the room completely, and shut himself away for days on end. I can still picture him lying there, day and night, in a pitch-dark room.
Eventually, after visiting the psychiatric department at the Japanese Red Cross Hospital, he was diagnosed with depression. I later learned that the signs had been there even before my parents were married. I blamed my mother. I cursed my home. I thought, If only she had been more careful, she would never have married a man like this. Then I would never have been born. I could have grown up in a bright, happy household. These thoughts took root in my heart when I was still a child, and I carried them for many years.
At that time, mental illness—whether depression or manic depression—was far less understood than it is today. Society's view of it was closed and narrow, and those affected wished to keep it hidden. I saw it as a shameful disease and never wanted my friends to find out. And like any illness, unless one lives in the same household, it is impossible to truly understand the pain, sadness, and fear it brings. In fact, even for family members, a mental illness can be hard to grasp—its causes are unclear, and without knowing the cause, one does not know how to respond. That was exactly our situation. The patient suffered, and the rest of us suffered alongside him, each clinging to our own pain and resentment. The atmosphere in the home was, of course, dark, and the only things that flowed between us were blame, lamentation, complaints, and grudges.
Who would have told us that an illness is not just a medical condition but also a reflection of the inner world each of us has cultivated? No one knew; no one understood. All we could do was spend our days desperately wishing for the suffering to end. In a household with a chronically ill member, it is easy for thoughts to turn into, If only you weren't here, or Because of you, we're unhappy, or Why must we suffer like this? Such thoughts were, I believe, endlessly repeated in our home.
3. Drifting Toward Reliance on External Salvation
We were no exception. Inevitably, we began to search for something—or someone—outside ourselves who could save us. If told, "You must hold memorial services for the wandering spirits of your ancestors" or "You must resolve your karmic bonds," we would spend money on it. When people are desperate, they will cling to anything that offers hope, and such energy only grows stronger. In this way, people gather under the banner of what is called "faith in others' power."
I understand it now: without ever questioning it, most people wish for the safety and happiness of themselves and their families. They believe that if the household is safe and everyone is healthy, they will lead happy lives. Respecting one's ancestors, producing descendants, passing on the family home, wealth, and name—these are considered natural duties. Working hard and contributing to society is praised as virtuous. Above all, living without trouble is regarded as happiness, and people shape their lives according to that social current. The world seems to offer countless choices for achieving such lives.
If someone possesses exceptional talent, intellect, or other abilities recognized by society, their life is seen as especially wonderful. Those with power, wealth, and influence might even believe the world revolves around them. But what happens when the opposite is true? When illness, poverty, or other so-called disadvantages dominate a life? Is such a life truly nothing but darkness? And conversely, are those whose lives seem dazzling with success really living in joy?
If the standard is purely worldly, then yes: having money is better than having none, health is better than sickness, and power is better than weakness. And so people race through life like draft horses, striving for these goals. If they achieve what they want, it becomes a "great success story," celebrated like a Cinderella dream. Even if setbacks come, the drive to achieve pushes them onward and upward. Such ambition is rarely called greed; it is often praised as admirable energy. Society applauds those who build empires, amass wealth, and leave their names in history.
But we must remember—every human being dies. The physical body will perish. If one's entire foundation is the physical body, then life ends there. But is that truly the end? If not, what happens next? Does one simply lie in eternal rest beneath the grave?
If life ends completely with death, then spending one's limited time in pursuit of worldly pleasures or achievements makes sense. But I feel this is not so. I believe we should view both life and ourselves from a far longer perspective.
Returning to my father—yes, for as long as I could remember, he lived in a state of depression. The difference between his well periods and his ill periods was stark, like night and day, heaven and hell. I cursed the illness for changing him so drastically, for creating what seemed like a double personality.
Through my teenage years, I constantly watched his condition. When he was well, he was the best father I could have asked for—serious, principled, and dependable. When he fell ill, he would say things like, "I want to die," "I can't bear to face people," "My body feels as heavy as if lead weights were hanging from my limbs," or "My mood drops like an elevator in free fall." These words weighed heavily on us all.
I feared he might throw himself in front of a train or stab himself. Sometimes his frustration would boil over and he would throw cushions or books, or strike the walls, tatami, or tables. His sharp eyes and rough manner terrified me. And yet, he never harmed us physically or troubled others—small mercies, perhaps, but mercies nonetheless.
Still, I was filled with fear, shame, resentment, and helplessness. Countless times I wished he were gone. I killed him over and over in my mind. I could hardly bear to look into his eyes when his face was drawn and tense. Each day, I would think, Is Father all right today? Will he be in a good mood?
When my father was bedridden, the house grew dark, and my mother, burdened with her own suffering, poured her complaints into me. Though I understood her pain, she had no clear solution—only repeated laments. I looked down on her for it. Even so, she did her best to support my father. Given our circumstances, it would not have been surprising if she had abandoned the household altogether. But she stayed—caring for him, for us children, and running the family business she had inherited from her parents.
It was in this environment that she turned increasingly to faith in others' power. She longed for something—anything—that could free us from our suffering and explain why such an illness had befallen us. Her childhood practice of reciting Namu Amida Butsu before the family altar intensified after marriage, as my father's illness deepened. Dissatisfied even then, she took to chanting the Heart Sutra at length, and tried anything she heard might help. At one point she even joined a religious organization, rising before dawn to attend gatherings that preached discipline and family solidarity as the path to happiness. Yet always, beneath it all, was the desire for physical comfort and happiness. That is the nature of reliance on others—it flows naturally from taking the physical world as the only reality.
4. The Allure of a Charismatic Leader's Power
In the midst of this, my mother heard about yet another religious group, and on one occasion I went with her to one of their gatherings. There, before my own eyes, I saw what appeared to be something mysterious and extraordinary—ritual movements that claimed to remove the cause of physical ailments from the afflicted parts of a person's body. To me, they seemed utterly convincing. I thought to myself, How amazing.
The leader's manner of speaking was equally captivating—confident, imposing, and delivered with a commanding presence. I believed that he could speak so clearly, decisively, and powerfully because he held some unshakable conviction within himself. More than the content of his talk, it was his presence, combined with the strange demonstration I had witnessed, that drew me in.
At first, my reason for attending was simple: I wanted my father to be cured. I wanted the cause of his suffering removed, if such a thing were possible. And so, I returned to that meeting place several times, even attending an overnight seminar in Hakone. Yet, despite the long journey, the seminar proved dull, and I left feeling it had been a waste. It was both my first and last seminar there.
Still, over time my feelings shifted. The initial wish for my father's recovery gave way to a fascination with the leader's "power." I began to think, Perhaps such mysterious power lies hidden within me as well. I wanted to find some key, some opportunity, to awaken that power. My thoughts gradually turned in that direction until I was firmly captivated. I came to believe that this leader was truly remarkable—a possessor of extraordinary power.
In comparison, the traditional practices of clasping one's hands before a household altar or a family grave and praying for happiness to the ancestors now seemed old-fashioned and ineffectual. What excited me far more was the idea of unearthing the latent power within myself.
Not long afterward, I heard that the leader had died—accompanied by rumors that he had foretold the date of his own passing. This only deepened my impression that he was an exceptional figure. The group was taken over by his daughter, but my attachment had been to him personally. With his death, my visits ceased naturally.
Even so, the fact remained: my father's illness had driven my mother deeper into faiths of reliance on others, and it had drawn me as well toward a figure whose mysterious power seemed to hold the promise of rescue.
5. Everyday Life with My Father and Family Memories
Despite all such efforts, my father's illness remained unchanged. He moved between periods of relative health and bouts of depression, and we lived accordingly. Yet I must repeat: when he was well, he was as good a father as any child could hope for.
He taught at a private high school, and in addition he worked with my mother in the family store inherited from her parents. They rose early and worked late, taking only one regular day off each month. Sundays were workdays, and only during New Year's and the Bon Festival would the store close for a few days. At year's end, the shop would finally close only after the NHK Red and White Song Festival finished on December 31. Even during the New Year holidays, my father would open the store if the public bath nearby was running a special morning bath on the second day. Both of my parents worked tirelessly.
And yet, they still made time for family. We often went on short outings with a packed lunch, and occasionally on longer trips. In summer we went to pools and the seaside, in winter to hot springs, and during the pleasant seasons we hiked. My earliest outings, before kindergarten, were often with my father alone when my mother could not leave the shop. Looking back at photos of myself playing in the rooftop amusement park of a department store, I realize now that my mother was absent from those days—but there were also many memories of dining out as a family of four.
I grew up in an era of growing material prosperity and benefited from it fully. There was never a day when we lacked food or clothing. In fact, I often felt my parents provided me with not just what I needed, but something a step above. Still, despite this material abundance, I resented my parents and thought to myself, Why was I born into this family?
6. The Constraints of a Child's Heart
Yet the fact remained: my father was ill—mentally ill, with what seemed an inescapable, incomprehensible affliction. I hated the illness. I saw it as a stain on myself and my family, the source of our misfortune. I imagined that if only the illness did not exist, our lives could be happy. Instead, I felt trapped in a pitch-dark cellar of despair from which there was no escape. I thought, No matter what we do, we will be haunted by this suffering for the rest of our lives.
Of course, I did not realize then that the darkness surrounding us was a projection of the dark thoughts within my own heart. My mother's reliance on outside salvation deepened, and my own yearning for "power" grew ever stronger. Together we remained mired in blackness.
Because of my father's illness, I felt a strong, unspoken resolve not to give my mother any further cause for worry. Even when I felt rebellious toward her, I kept it inside, knowing how much she already bore. In that sense, I may not have been a typical child. I lived my early years always watching my parents' expressions and moods, measuring my behavior against them. Relatives and neighbors often described me as a "mature" child, and I believe they were right.
I think my mother, burdened with both the store and my father's illness, relied on me as the elder child. And so I bound my own heart, playing the outward role of the "good daughter" while inside I was all darkness. I restrained my true feelings, keeping them locked away, and learned to present a compliant surface to the world, even as my inner world was filled with resentment, fear, and gloom.