None of the doctors who have seen our son over the past two years want to say it. In fact they go out of their way to say they can't say it, because he's not 18 and you can't diagnose someone with borderline personality until he is 18. We got the message anyway, as they desired.
The wife and I ask each other why he does the things he does? Why he refuses to do other things. We assume he has the ability to choose. I get mad at him when he has a setback. I get disappointed, frustrated, distraught. And mad. Mad at him. Mad at me. Mad at the situation. Mad.
I don't get mad, or at least shouldn't get mad at someone who has a cold. I don't get mad at someone who is in a wheelchair and is blocking the aisle in a train, or delaying the plane taking off. They didn't choose to be sick. My son didn't choose to be sick.
I get mad at the decisions he makes. But is that fair? Is he making decisions? How much free will does he have? When I get mad at him for hurting himself; when I get mad at him for refusing treatment; How is that fair? When I become exasperated by the choices he makes it assumes he has the ability to make choices. How much choice does he really have?
He takes us on a roller-coaster ride. He's up; we are up. We are full of hope, optimism. He's down; we are down. No hope, despair, unending heart-ache. All the books, all the doctors warned us. Some suggest not letting him take you on that ride, as if that is even possible.
It seemed like two weeks ago there was progress. It seemed like the long-prayed for miracle. And we knew it could be a false sign, like we have seen before. We were so hopeful anyway. How can you not be hopeful? And then it was gone, in an instant, again. Back down, again. There doesn't seem to be a steady with him, only going up or going down.
We called today. Like we call every Sunday. He refused to speak to us.
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