The cries for help by a child

01||the start of it all

Most people don't remember much from their childhood, and I can't say I'm very different, to be honest. I don't really remember anything from my early years, but there is one particular memory that has stayed with me. It was when I was four years old, and I went on a walk with my mom. Little did I know that this would be one of the last carefree moments we would share before my mom began showing signs of schizophrenia.

On that sunny afternoon, my small hand fit snugly within my mom's gentle grasp as we ventured into the nearby park. The vibrant hues of summer surrounded us, painting a picturesque scene of joy and innocence. The park was alive with laughter, children playing, and the sound of birds singing in the trees.

As we strolled along the winding path, Mom's smile radiated warmth and love, filling my heart with a sense of security. She pointed out different trees, teaching me their names and sharing fascinating tidbits about each one. We collected fallen leaves and examined them together, marveling at the intricate patterns nature had crafted.

The park seemed like a treasure trove of adventures, and my mom was my guiding light, leading me through the magical wonders it held. We played on the swings, soared high in the air on the seesaw, and giggled uncontrollably as we spun on the merry-go-round. Time felt suspended, and the world was filled with endless possibilities.

But as the saying nothing gold can stay goes, my mom's schizophrenia gradually manifested in more noticeable ways. Hallucinations and delusions haunted her mind, and the once-clear boundary between reality and imagination grew blurred. It was an overwhelming and confusing experience for both of us.

And on that day I realize, the loving caring mom I remember was gone and there was nothing I could do about it except cry, and wish it was all a bad dream.