Nothing in the world could have prepared me for that horror — that Chezky now thought I was the enemy itself

Roses are red, violets are blue, I am a schizophrenic and so am I.

I was in fifth grade the first time I heard this idiotic spin of the classic rhyme, and at the time my tween brain thought it hysterical. Now it played itself over and over in my brain, as we sat in the office of this famous psychiatrist Becky had insisted we consult.

“It’s really semantics at this point to decide if he’s schizophrenic or bipolar,” he said, folding his hands on his desk. “The issue is that you’re treating it by slapping more and more antipsychotic drugs on him, but his body isn’t reacting positively to them, and they may even be exacerbating the symptoms. What I suggest is for you to have him admitted to my hospital in Tel Aviv. He’ll be under my professional staff, and we’ll take him off all meds and start again.”

“Off all meds.” My voice was robotic as I parroted his words. I was beyond thought, pain, barely even noticing my surroundings. Chezky may have been able to go without sleep for nights on end, but the events of the last few weeks had caused my entire system — physical, emotional, even spiritual —to completely crash.

I could not fathom the concept of a Chezky without medication, even if he’d be in the hospital. Would I have to visit him like that? Would he be restrained? My body felt like it was flailing against a brick wall. Again and again, I’d be smashed on the harsh stones of this reality that seemed more and more painful with every new twist and turn.

“But he’s been a bit better the last few days. He falls asleep sometimes, and maybe he’s pulling out of it.” I knew I was grasping at straws, but I felt I was drowning in this maelstrom.

“Maybe he is. But that doesn’t mean he won’t fall right back into the rabbit hole.” The doctor’s voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm. “Look, you came to me for my opinion. I strongly feel this is the way to go. Even if he gets better now, unless you’re willing to follow my protocol, there’s a good chance I’ll find you in my waiting room again with the same set of circumstances.”

He was right. We’d come for a second opinion, and now we had to figure out how to roll with it. Becky agreed with this direction. “This can happen during the years of hormonal upheaval. What worked for him as a child may not be working now. Within a hospital setting, we can focus on his needs without worrying if he’ll hurt himself or someone else.”

My husband was also on board. But despite the trauma of the last few weeks, a psychiatric hospital sounded worse to me than the house of horrors my home had become. Would they know that Chezky liked ketchup? Would he even be able to eat? Would they lock— My heart rose into my throat, and I choked on that thought. What mother would allow her child to be locked up?