My mother with mental illness died last week. She was 85 years old. Here I share my recollection of being raised by a mother with mental illness.
Generally speaking, I avoid public discussion of religion and politics. Not because I fear offending someone (I do that just about every time I open my mouth), but because such conversations usually irritate me to the point of pulling out my own hair. That said, the quest for a GOP presidential candidate has raised a lot of brouhaha concerning reproductive rights in America. Whether certain politicians aim to force everyone to spawn or limit childbearing rights to a particular set is unclear. The debate, however, brings to mind the question: should people with psychiatric illness have children?
Yesterday morning, Bob said something I’ve never heard him say before: “I need to see my doctor.” (He was referring to his psychiatrist.)
I asked why, and his answer was clear: “Because I can’t sleep.” I felt awful for him, he looked almost near tears.
My most recent post asked if a parent and child should see the same psychiatrist. The consensus was a resounding “NO.” (Honestly, can’t you people make anything easy?) Admittedly, upon giving the situation further thought, I’d rather preserve my flawless appearance with Bob’s psychiatrist and let someone else be privy to my hot-messiness.
And so the search begins. (Sigh.)
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