I’m new to the Forum but have been reading a ton and appreciate the wisdom, the pain, the struggle, and, most importantly, the unending LOVE being poured out - both as Caregivers to our loved one, but also as Caregivers to each other.
Some of the posts are so dang tragic. Heart wrenchingly sad. And NO ONE can understand this abyss like this group.
So, to take my mind off my pain, and hopefully to add a little macabre humor and empathy, I created this post TOP THIS: With a goal of briefly sharing some of the MOST bizarre realities you’ve faced. Hopefully you’ll find some solace and an understanding smile in these shared moments.
I’ll start and see where it goes:
My 19 year old son (adopted at birth) has recently been diagnosed with SZ. Up until a recent episodic break, where he cut himself badly, he was diagnosed with “Intermittent Explosiveness” (it’s a real DX code!). What that meant is that he’d lose his shit, tear up our home (at least 5 smashed big-screen TVs, glass windows, stained glass front door, +, +, +). He’s also come after me (dad) with a knife, and several times with… wait for it… BASEBALLS! No, not the bat. The ball. The kid has been a pitching machine since he could crawl!!
We played catch 1,000’s of times. He got so strong and fast that I couldn’t catch with him anymore. He loved throwing and from early age played select, triple A baseball or on a travel team. He absolutely loved it. And so did mom and dad! He was a switch hitting catcher - high demand. And has a gun for an arm.
Sooo, when I’d attempt to control or restrain him (numerous police interactions, and all the expected hospitalizations of course), he’d go grab the big bucket of baseballs and use his arm to express his anger. I’ve got baseball-size holes in my fence, garage, numerous walls, cabinets, TVs, appliances, and of course took a few beaners on my body. It’s been an exciting few years.
The police: “Does your son have any weapons?” Me: “Hell yes. He’s got another 3-4 baseballs and a rocket arm…”. Sad. But true. Fortunately never threatened (or hurt) anyone but me (me a lot).
We were always careful to lock up “weapons”. But somehow the bucket of baseballs was always forgotten… until he’d get them in one of his rages… and I’d be like “shit…the fng baseballs!!” and start running. now we’ve finally got a SZ diagnosis and he’s in New Roads in Utah getting help (hopefully).
Can anyone Top This??