When we took Mr R off the Risperdal in November 2006, we didn’t tell anyone.

His school, you see, defined him by his IEP and his medications. If he had a rough day at school, I’d get a call wondering if he skipped his pill. Occasionally I’d get a helpful note, reminding us of the nurses guidelines for prescription dispensing. It was irritating to know that he was a faceless number tagged with an Rx by his name.

My child is not his medication. Sometimes we all are irritable, annoyed, and short tempered. So is my child.

My child is not his medication. We all feel sad sometimes. Children cry. Some children are more sensitive than others. An occasional melancholy mood does not mean he missed his meds.

If there was a pill available that would deaden his soul, and numb his heart so he would never be sad, I would never give it to him. Tears are necessary, sometimes, to water the garden of life.

My child is not his medication. Children are childish. They can be foolish, impulsive, irresponsible. When my child acts like a child, it does not mean he needs another dose. Sometimes he, like all children, gets overexcited.

My child is fearfully and wonderfully made. I have faith the God knows what he is doing. My child was created just the way he is, for a purpose.

My child’s medications are controlled by us, his parents. We love him. We know him.

You are simply a stranger, who sees him at his worst in the toy department. You are an interloper, here only for a couple of semesters. You may be an extended family member, but you are also an occasional observer of life’s most stressful and most happy moments. You only see him in most difficult hour; you judge what you do not understand.

Instead of this:

Look at him and see this:

My child is not his medication.

Tagged as: bipolar, medication, Special Needs