People say that having a schizophrenic mom isn't that bad, but they'll never understand what I had to go through. They'll never comprehend the depth of my suffering, the countless tears I shed, and the emotional rollercoaster I endured every single day.
Growing up, my world was a constant battleground between reality and delusion. My mom's mind was trapped in a never-ending maze of fragmented thoughts and distorted perceptions. Some days, she was a loving and caring mother, her eyes filled with warmth and tenderness. But other days, her eyes would dart around the room, filled with fear and confusion, as if she were being chased by invisible demons.
I was just a child, and I always felt like I was treading on thin ice, never sure when the cracks would give way. I became an expert at deciphering her moods, walking on eggshells to avoid triggering her paranoia or setting off a torrent of incomprehensible rants. The weight of her illness consumed our household, casting a dark shadow over our lives.
Friends and neighbors whispered their sympathy, but their well-intentioned words fell flat. They couldn't possibly grasp the heart-wrenching pain of watching someone you love being held captive by their own mind. The nights were the hardest. As a child, I would curl up in bed, clutching my pillow tightly, as waves of confusion and anguish washed over me. The silence would be shattered by her haunting cries, echoing through the walls of our home. Those cries were a symphony of her inner torment and my own helplessness.
In school, I struggled to focus on my studies, my mind preoccupied with worries about my mom's well-being. I was constantly on edge, wondering if she was safe or if her delusions had led her astray. The stigma associated with mental illness added another layer of isolation to my already burdened shoulders. I was too afraid to confide in my friends, fearing their judgment or their inability to comprehend the complexities of my situation.
My dreams and aspirations often took a backseat as I navigated the unpredictable terrain of my mom's illness. I became her protector, her confidant, and her sole source of stability. But as much as I tried to shield her from the world, I couldn't protect myself from the emotional scars that etched themselves deep within me.
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The cries for help by a child
Short StoryHey, I'm Julian, a 13-year-old kid that feels things a bit too deeply. I've always found solace in writing, and now I'm pouring my emotions into a story called "The Cries for Help by a Child." Brace yourself, because this is going to be a raw and em...
