The saints who are my parents

The week after going 75+ hours without sleep, and the ensuing psychotic break, I started going to an out-patient facility during the day. My mom and dad both worked, and there was no way I could stay home alone, so the facility was our only option. I would go from about 9:00 am until 4:00 pm. 

I have stories from the out-patient hospital, but I want this post to be about my parents, especially my mom. 

My poor mother. 

My episode happened towards the end of August, and I probably wasn’t completely myself until November. That’s a long time to interact with a crazy person day in and day out, but she did it without complaining. 

When someone is manic they often experience what is known as pressured speech. I was not an exception. I would talk. And talk. And talk. I remember wanting to talk all the time and not being able to shut up. I talked nonsense, hardly ever making sense. During this time, I thought I had literally everything figured out. 

I knew exactly how the social hierarchy worked. Everyone had a specific role in society, and they were assigned those roles sometime in college. There were nine roles that made society work, and the world needed every single one of them. My mom got to listen to me talk about that ad nauseam.

I had to talk. Silence was unbearable. Silence was not an option, and I had to be the one talking. I cannot overstate how much I talked. This was out of the ordinary for me. I had always been quiet and shy. Silence had always been acceptable, and maybe even preferable. Not so during my recovery.

But my mom listened and never criticized. She would often have a confused look on her face whilst I talked to her, which of course meant I was not explaining my nonsensical theories correctly. This led me to explain further and more furtively. 

Eventually, I recognized that I wasn’t making sense when I talked to my family, and I asked them to tell me when it happened. They did. 

I still talked an inordinate amount, but when they told me I wasn’t making sense, I would say, “Okay.” And I’d either get quiet or talk about something else. 

I cannot imagine what my parents went through in nursing me back to mental health, but I know they are both saints. My mom in particular; she seemed to get the brunt of my crazy ramblings.

My parents played a huge role in me recovering from my psychotic break. They took me to and from doctor appointments. They kindly, but firmly made sure I always took my medicine. They made sure I still got to see some of my friends, even when I wasn’t well enough to leave the house. They watched my favorite movies with me over and over again. 

And I know they prayed for me to heal and for me to recover my mind. God answered those prayers, and I know my parents weren’t the only ones praying for me. I am very grateful to my other family members and friends who also prayed for me during that time.

Because of God’s love and grace, I recovered fully, and I haven’t had an episode since my first. I don’t like to think about where I would be without my support system, but I’m sure it’d be nowhere good.

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