I was raised with religion. My mother's family was Catholic. My father's Baptist. We were baptized, went to Sunday school and so on. Pita was raised Methodist. We have never attended church regularly, as service is too long for Liam.
Each night before bed, from the time he could speak, Liam has said his prayers. When he was an infant, I said them for him. I too say prayers, and add special ones for those who need them. This isn't to say I don't sin. I cuss, sometimes like a sailor. But we are good people, and we are raising our son to be a good man. We believe....or so I thought.
You see, when Liam cycles this far into his depressive mode, I question the existence of God. How could a man, so loving, so caring for those He created in His image, let one suffer so badly? Why are people murdered? Raped? Cancer? Mental Illness?
I know, I know, we need the bad to appreciate the good. Seriously though. Today my son turned nine. There was no happiness. His father and I forced our smiles. Liam was blank and emotionless all day. We took him swimming and cray fishing, and his brain couldn't let him enjoy it. He didn't even eat his own cake because his stomach is so sick from this cycle. The sparkle that lights up his face is gone. Who could let someone suffer like that?
But when I go to bed tonight, I will still pray. I will lay next to my son, listen to him say his prayers, and then I will silently beg God to help him through this cycle. To make it end sooner for him. I have to. If I don't have some sort of faith in something better, I won't have the strength to help my son through this.
And before I close my eyes and attempt to get some sleep tonight, I will listen to this song. I won't let Bipolar Disorder ruin his life, or ours. I won't back down. Not ever.
