I sometimes worry I will end up like him.

Begging for thread.

Every day.


A complete break from reality.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

I suppose that’s the beauty of it. Once you’ve given yourself entirely over to the mania you don’t feel conflict any longer.  Lights out. Nobody’s home.

It’s hard for me not to be very angry with him.  I know that he cannot help it.  That he is  simply a prisoner to his own mind.  We can’t reach him there.  He’s a good, kind, man.  He deserves love and affection. We need to make him feel worthy. Not less than.

And yet he does this to himself.  He refuses to take his medication.  He drags everyone with him down the rabbit hole. While we wait with baited breath for the next shoe to drop.  We worry and ruminate over where this path will take him (and consequentially us).  Meanwhile he laughs to himself about tiny secrets that we are not privy to.

He sees things that no one else sees.

Is it beautiful where he lives?

I hope so.

And I know that this could be my future someday.  That I could push myself a little too hard and end up like him.  Broken. Trapped inside my own head.  Creating my own reality. Not being able to separate fact from fiction. Confused. Completely without control.

Him and I, we are made of the same stuff.  I carry his same diagnosis- but sans the psychosis.

I am already a warrior on the battlefield.  I know how to wield the sword to keep the demons at bay.  To keep my ever-changing emotions in check.  To dodge them as though they were an endless stream of bullets seeking to take me down.

I will keep fighting.

In the hopes that I don’t lose the war.

And end up like him.

My father.


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