“Dad,” David said. “They are out to get me.” “Who are they?” my husband wanted to know. “The voices. They talk to me, mix me up. I don’t have any peace. My life is worthless. I am unemployed, getting older. There are microphones everywhere, broadcasting every word I utter. Time. Time. All I have is time. Time to sit, time to think, time to watch the world go by. I have no present … no future.” “David, I’m sorry you hear voices that i can’t hear. I’m sorry I can’t see the things you see. Patience is the operative word here. Go bac to the rehabilitation center andyour social worker miht even find sheltered employment for you.” “Is that all you can say, Dad?”
We were unable to penetrate our son’s world., his inner life of voices and his talk about microphones. His ideas were warped. Sometines his eyes seemed blank and glazed. i wanted to nurse him back to good health, bandage him, cradle him in my arms.
