The Devil Inside

How do you tell your children about the beast who lurks within? When their uncomprehending eyes witness the latest eruption, when alcohol distorts behavior, when depression wraps its tentacles around your heart and brain and threatens to drag you into the abyss, how to explain?
I favor candor, but the desire to inform without frightening necessitates a certain balance. Anxiety and concern already occupy too much of Son No. 1's time. At least I have a frame of reference that helps to guide my approach. As an angst-riddled youth, I had nobody to whom I could turn for comfort. I try to ensure that he does.
Along those lines, I recently explained a transgression to him by indicting my behavior. I told him it's not acceptable for me to act like that, in case he thought it was all right. He said he didn't. My wife says the kids idolize me and that if I do it, they're likely to think that they can, too.
I suppose I could attempt to conceal the inner turbulence, but what happens when the kids experience the rage or the melancholia or the general disillusionment and wonder about its origins? When I consider the manner in which I was raised, and the resulting confusion, I'm convinced that the direct approach, tempered based on a judgment regarding the child's intellectual and emotional capacity, outshines obfuscation. When I consider my youth, I can't help but wonder what might have been had anyone possessed insight into the afflictions that beset our family. Perhaps it would be unreasonable to expect that from someone within the family, since such recognition presumably would lead to remedial activity and mitigate the unpleasant circumstances. Instead, the path of least of least resistance apparently offered the most attractive route. Maybe my mother's coping mechanism was such that she convinced herself that she was providing a true account. Many times she told me that I offered sage suggestions, yet she ignored them all. The one that most readily comes to mind involves my recommendation that we sell our big house and the associated responsibilities, while simultaneously ensuring that my brother(s) no longer would live with us. The alcohol, the drug selling, the violence, the disruptive late-night partying and wall-rattling decibel level made the situation unappealing for someone who hadn't yet hit his teens. And the household maintenance, which fell disproportionately to me, became one more burden to bear. But my mother, her faculties now further compromised by a stroke, never did reach the point at which she could extricate herself from my brother, from the co-dependent and dysfunctional.
So, does recognition equal a remedy. Not necessarily. The mere fact that I recognize self-destructive tendencies and their collateral effects doesn't mean that a solution comes easily or quickly. Were it so, I likely wouldn't be wrestling with this question of the day/week/month: How do I explain myself to my kids? Do I even need to explain myself? The ethos of a previous era would suggest that such introspection is counterproductive and that we owe our children no such consideration. This doesn't make me feel enlightened, just marginally sensible. I don't blow smoke up my kids' asses. If one of them swings at a pitch over his head, I ask why he swung at a pitch over his head. If they do well, I tell them they did well. I try to hold myself to the same standard, and maybe I'll have credibility with them if I at least set a good example in that respect. Not that acknowledging one's transgressions should necessarily lead to exoneration. But it's a start.
I joke that the kids will reach an age at which they'll resent their parents. The progression seems natural. But I hope that, on the other side of that resentment, they consider me worthy of their love and admiration. Maybe this is all an academic exercise. Maybe they won't experience even a fraction of what I have.