They have meaningful lives.
I am jealous of their freedom.
It drives me crazy.
Nobody can live like this.
Written by my son.
“Your son has Schizophrenia, the psychiatrist said:”
“It’s a word, that’s all, a word that covers a large category. It’s like saying ‘flower.’ There are petunias, daisies, roses and sweet peas. Paranoid Schizophrenia, which is your son’s diagnosis, is distinguished by certain factors such as suspicion of others and the conviction that people are against him. Sometimes he has feelings of grandiosity and thinks he’s better and more powerful than other people and is able to do whatever he wants. He can have hallucinations one week and then hold down a responsible job a month later. Other times he feels impotent, controlled by others, trapped in a web. And, he hears voices that nobody else can hear; in his head.”
The doctor’s sentences poured out like perfect seams holding together a garment without calling attention to the stitches.
“This is a straightforward case,” the psychiatrist continued; “a classic case. All I had to do was ask your son how he was feeling and he launched into a description of Them and The Establishment. “Schizophrenia is a physical illness that affects the brain.”
“Doctor, did you say that Schizophrenia is a PHYSICAL illness that affects the brain?”
“If so, how did it get the name ‘mental illness? Shouldn’t it be called a ‘brain illness? After all the brain is an important part of our bodies.”
My husband and I stared at the doctor, wondering what he was really trying to tell us.