This is my son one year ago.
Not much has changed in one year, to be honest with you -- with the exception of a few home visits a few months ago which brought me much hope that he was getting better and that maybe, just maybe, he was on the road to recovery from this shitty disease called schizophrenia.
But my hopes were shattered, once again, when I attended his 65th clinical. Yes, sixty-fifth. He's been in this crap hole state hospital for over five years. He may have a fresh haircut now, and may not be wearing a shirt around his neck or gloves on his hands, but other things are surfacing.
Thoughts of death, not wanting to be here (who could blame him for that?). What kind of life is this that he's living? One where he hears voices telling him to do horrific things to himself and others. One where he thinks people are not who they say they are. Do you think that's a good way to live? I don't. I wouldn't wish this disease on anyone.
Why does my only son have to have this god awful illness? Why? Anyone? Anyone want to tell me why? And please, whatever you have to say about this, do not say it will all be worked out in the afterlife ... because that, my friends, is a cop out answer and I don't buy into it for one second.
Nor do I believe God gave this to my son to live with. Because quite frankly, if there is a God and he did give this to my son to live with, I want no part of that God. How incredibly mean and heartless to put someone through something like this.
I'm just really sad today. We can't ever give up hope but damn it's hard.
See ACCEPTANCE by Sherry Hunter, October 19, 2016, on this blog.