When my kids were little and in a different room, I would sometimes feel as if I were missing a piece of myself—literally—like an arm or a leg. Now with my older son so ill with schizo-affective disorder, I feel as if I am missing my head, and truth be told, I wish I were. How much easier it would be to not think about anything, have nothing to worry about, cry about, to feel as empty as a fishbowl minus the fish. Yes, I’d like to take a flying leap into that empty bowl and disappear or be sucked into the black hole of oblivion and feel nothing.
He just called and as often happens I needed to take an anxiety pill right after to stop obsessing. I expected him to bring up a subject I suggested to his guardian: for him to see a holistic doctor as an adjunct to his psychiatrist at the local mental-health center. One of his problems is anosognosia, the inability to recognize something is wrong. Since he thinks he is not sick, he hates his psychiatrist and taking medication so I thought he’d jump at the chance of seeing a holistic doctor or neuropath. Strangely, he didn’t mention it so I suspect he already forget that he talked it over with his guardian, saying he was interested. This illness has robbed him of so much including his cognitive abilities. Years ago when he joined Mensa his IQ was in the 150s; now I wonder if it is even half that. His memory stinks and he’s also turned into a one-trick pony with his only interest being religion. Don’t get me wrong; I think it’s nice that there is something that gives him peace, but he used to have many interests: science, language, music, everything, but now his life has shrunk to the eye of a pin. So off with my head, please! What a lousy, stinky illness this is.