I have come such a long way on this journey that I have been able to laugh about psychosis for quite a while now. I no longer feel worried, as I once did, that it is a hopelessly chronic condition. Ian and I sat on our balcony last night, watching the house lights twinkle in the mountains across the lake. We’re beginning to reminisce a lot, which is almost a sure sign of old age. Ian declared that Chris was in a good state, was definitely intelligent and capable, but that we didn’t realize when he graduated from high school he needed more time than most to become himself. We both agreed that work is still needed in that department, but that Chris wasn’t brain damaged by his experience. If anything, his mind is sharper than it ever was. This is not how the medical literature tells us it is supposed to be. Parents, if you are new to this blog and the schizophrenia diagnosis, do not get sucked in by the negativity surrounding this label.

We agreed that our definition of normal has been severely tested. We now look upon “normal” as a mental illness. I look at many things as a mental illness. How about marriage? Divorce? Families are mentally ill by definition, I am convinced. Being dull is a mental illness, too.

Well, here’s to being dull no more. For some reason, I couldn’t get my mind off the song Little Boxes when I was trying to get some sleep Sunday afternoon. Ian, strangely in synch with me across town, was listening to the Peter Seeger version. For the record, I have never seen Weeds, the television show that has this as its theme song.

Song lyrics to Little Boxes, by Malvina Reynolds (c) 1962
(beginning at second verse)

And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there’s doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,

And they’re all made out of ticky tacky

And they all look just the same.