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A few months ago my youngest son stopped. Everything. He stopped playing, he stopped drawing, he stopped reading. He mostly stopped talking, and even getting food into him became difficult. He lost weight. His mood began to vacillate between blank, brooding, and sad. Out of the blue his small body would shake with white hot rage, then rack with sobs. And he couldn’t - and still can’t - explain or articulate any of it. The weeks since have been filled with the pediatrician, a psychologist, a neurological evaluation, blood work, another psychologist, a psychological evaluation, and lots of sessions with a therapist. We still don’t have any real answers. We know a lot about what it probably isn’t, still wading through guesses about what it is. Things have started to get a small amount better, but it’s hard for me to find any rest there; I spend the good days simultaneously soaking in every second that I can, and holding my breath for the turn. Still, there are at least good days now, few as they may be they are there. And wading through the difficult ones makes me appreciate them more than I ever have. The day I took this picture was a good one; it was the happiest I had seen him in months.
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