This captured a lot of the experience I had coping with my father having turned psychotic for the last six months of his life. You write insightfully as always, and with a sensibility that is uncannily similar to my own. This was a painful read for me and a reminder of how ill-equipped we are to handle psychosis. It centers you as the only fully informed case manager struggling to inform and coordinate momentarily available resources. (Weekend hospital admissions are a next level of cruel problems.)
In my own experience, I could measure the totality of the effort in varying degrees of incompetence, although with few people worthy of blame. It was easy for me to forgive the failures (water under the bridge and "what next?" always being the focus of the moment), but painful to see the anger in the eyes of my siblings as they looked upon me as if that forgiveness was part of a conspiracy of the uncaring. They had no such forgiveness, nor the fortitude to join me [productively] in battle (which was hour by hour, not day by day).
Only his death saved me from the battle. I say this with tears in my eyes, not for my situation, but for yours.
But I am a warrior, and the battle, if need be, is until death. (You are too.)
I found some solace, as always, in being alive, healthy, safe, and not destitute. That far away struggling look in my father's eyes (with occasional moments of normal-like presence, torturously teasing hope) was an ever-painful reminder of my good fortune. I would have given anything to trade places with him, to alleviate his suffering (and lessen mine). Such a grand bargain, of trading places with him, kept popping into my head, reminding me of no such possibility being in the offing.
All that said, I was trying to save my father, an old man, and you are trying to save your son, a young man. Yours is a much worse predicament (the worst), with a much more challenging outlook. God bless you, Michael. The warrior in you is all you have. (I'm being simplistic. A sense of humor is invaluable in reconciling the unreconcilable, as are many other tools in your wheelhouse.)
Go forth as you do. Be strong, as you are. This miracle of life, your existential predicament including all the suffering, is still a miracle that won't persist for much longer. Try to find moments, even in the worst times, to give thanks, and to forgive yourself for your inabilities.
And may your son be of a more stable mind. Again, amidst helplessness, with hope: God bless. (I don't believe in god, but he's all I got, so I turn to the god in whom I do not believe. He is with me here. He is with you.)
I've been in those mountains. Not that valley, but one close by. Occasionally a light shines in. Not much, but always enough and at the right time. Look for it.
Praying for y'all and your son. Hope he can get his head right.
This captured a lot of the experience I had coping with my father having turned psychotic for the last six months of his life. You write insightfully as always, and with a sensibility that is uncannily similar to my own. This was a painful read for me and a reminder of how ill-equipped we are to handle psychosis. It centers you as the only fully informed case manager struggling to inform and coordinate momentarily available resources. (Weekend hospital admissions are a next level of cruel problems.)
In my own experience, I could measure the totality of the effort in varying degrees of incompetence, although with few people worthy of blame. It was easy for me to forgive the failures (water under the bridge and "what next?" always being the focus of the moment), but painful to see the anger in the eyes of my siblings as they looked upon me as if that forgiveness was part of a conspiracy of the uncaring. They had no such forgiveness, nor the fortitude to join me [productively] in battle (which was hour by hour, not day by day).
Only his death saved me from the battle. I say this with tears in my eyes, not for my situation, but for yours.
But I am a warrior, and the battle, if need be, is until death. (You are too.)
I found some solace, as always, in being alive, healthy, safe, and not destitute. That far away struggling look in my father's eyes (with occasional moments of normal-like presence, torturously teasing hope) was an ever-painful reminder of my good fortune. I would have given anything to trade places with him, to alleviate his suffering (and lessen mine). Such a grand bargain, of trading places with him, kept popping into my head, reminding me of no such possibility being in the offing.
All that said, I was trying to save my father, an old man, and you are trying to save your son, a young man. Yours is a much worse predicament (the worst), with a much more challenging outlook. God bless you, Michael. The warrior in you is all you have. (I'm being simplistic. A sense of humor is invaluable in reconciling the unreconcilable, as are many other tools in your wheelhouse.)
Go forth as you do. Be strong, as you are. This miracle of life, your existential predicament including all the suffering, is still a miracle that won't persist for much longer. Try to find moments, even in the worst times, to give thanks, and to forgive yourself for your inabilities.
And may your son be of a more stable mind. Again, amidst helplessness, with hope: God bless. (I don't believe in god, but he's all I got, so I turn to the god in whom I do not believe. He is with me here. He is with you.)
I've been in those mountains. Not that valley, but one close by. Occasionally a light shines in. Not much, but always enough and at the right time. Look for it.