We had a good visit talking about me as a young man and as an un-medicated schizophrenic. Dad appreciated my honesty and the forthcoming answers to his questions.
"I was a sad drunk," I told my father of my time at college. "Beer was my medication then. I loved to drive around the deserted country roads, listen to music, and shed a tear or two in my beer."
Rickie Lee Jones, Joni Mitchell, and Steely Dan serenaded me on many of those nights.
"Just think how differently your life would have been with Risperdal," my father told me forlornly. "They didn't have all these atypical antipsychotics back then!"
"I probably would have finished college, become a music teacher, and had a family," I sadly replied to my father. "Rachel and I would still be married."
"Come on and let's go feed and water the Magster," my father said closing out the conversation.
Maggie and I were so glad to see Dad tonight. I like it when he comes about half past eight and doesn't make us languish anxiously for his arrival until after nine and sometimes ten.
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