He's flippin' crazy!

I grew my beard back, but I'm going to keep it short and neat I think.  It's so gray, but it does help to hide my double chin just a little.

Now, let me mention my post title.  I'm in the process of writing a novel as many of you know.  It's a YA novel about a teenager with a mental illness.  I stumbled upon the mental illness that I wanted him to have by doing a little research.  I originally thought I would have him be suffering from bipolar I, and I knew that in severe cases of bipolar I, that people suffered from hallucinations.  My character sees his dead father, and every now and then, the characters in the stories that he writes come to visit him.

So, I was doing some research and started reading about schizo-affective disorder which is actually a mix of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia with characteristics of each.  There are times when my character has bouts of mania or depression, and there are times when he is relatively stable.  One of the criteria for having schizo-affective disorder is having schizophrenic effects such as hallucinations when one's mood is fairly stable.

Let me state here that I am doing some serious research on my book, and I'm finding out about this illness.  I'm not throwing out a character who is your stereotypical insane lunatic.  My character is a 16 year old boy.  I have deepest sympathies for anyone who suffers from mental illness.  I can even empathize because I have cyclothymia which is a distant cousin to bipolar II, the milder of the  forms of bipolar disorder.  In some ways the story that I am writing has bits that are autobiographical.  Isn't it time that someone wrote a YA novel about a teenager with a mental illness, and wrote it in a compassionate way?  I'm trying.  I'm only a third of the way through it, but  I  think it's really a good novel.  I'll even give you a sneak peak of page one.  See below:

     I put the facemask on – it's a rubber thing that fits into my nostrils – and I tighten the straps to my head. I flip the on switch and a burst of fresh oxygen hits me, so I suck in it sweetness.
My mama would kill me if she ever knew I was using her CPAP machine, but my mom doesn't really notice me much anymore. Now, Dee, on the other hand –
     "Dean, you are an idiot!"
     Speaking of the devil and his imps will appear. I turn to see Dee standing in the doorway looking at me.
     "I am not an idiot," I say through the mask. My voice is muffled by the hiss of the air and nasally – because, of course, my nostrils have two rubber plugs, one up each side.
     "Putting a CPAP on your face every day is not going to make you smarter," Dee says.
     "It provides oxygen." I pause and keep my mouth open. The air escapes and whistles like a storm ripping through trees. This is so cool, I think.
     "Well, you certainly could use a little more oxygen in your brain," she says and laughs. I laugh too. Something about my twin’s laugh makes everyone around her laugh too.  It's a shame she doesn't do it more often.

     Dee walks to me and shoves me down on the bed and then turns the CPAP machine off.
     "You better clean the snot off it. Mom just called. She's coming home early and we're leaving as soon as she gets here."
     She looks around the room, checking to see if there's anything left in here to be put in boxes. "I am not touching that thing after it's been up your nose," she says indicating the CPAP. "Clean it up and put it back in its case. Then clean up your room. You got paper scattered everywhere."

     "You didn't read them!" I jump up, not really mad, just a little nervous.
     “Don't worry; I didn't read your precious stories."
     I know Dee, and I know better. "Yes, you did."
     "Okay, I did. Very weird, brother, but kind of cool too. "
     She turns and walks away. If Dee likes my stories, I know they're cool because Dee’s cool. I quickly pack mom's machine and then go to my room. If dad were here, he'd like my stories too. He’d think they were cool too. I get my creativity from him, but I also get my bipolar disorder. I look at the first paragraph of this new story I'm working on, and I think how stupid it sounds now. I also think about how stupid it is that my dad's dead and how stupid it is that we have to downsize. The depression starts in the middle of my forehead where it always does and then spreads. Within minutes, my body, heart and soul are leaden with sadness. At times like this, I understand how it's possible that my dad's drowning was not an accident as my mom has told us.