It would be unfair to say that he was always this way. He wasn't. He was always headed toward this inevitability, but there was hope. He was sanguine. There were days when he would stare off into space for hours, then, suddenly, he was there. Just talking about normal stuff. Asking questions. Almost like he knew what was happening but was afraid to ask.
It was a gradual descent. That's fair to say. The moments of clarity became a rarity. I'd come running and devour every word. Tell me. Tell Mommy all about it. He'd cry sometimes. He didn't understand, but it was not his job to understand. He felt powerless, but he was powerless. Strange, how quickly sweet things turn sour.
Sometimes I think back to when it all started. He was happy then, and he worshipped me. I was happy, too, happy to be everything he needed me to be. Even if he didn't know what he needed. I did.
I hear him at night sometimes, but there is no talking to him once I've given him his meds. But I hear him. Mommy! Help! Sometimes, I'm angry. Usually, I smile because I know that he needs me more than he has ever needed anyone.
It's gotten so bad now that he needs to be restrained at all times. He is strong physically, but growing weaker mentally. Soon, I will be able to get the straightjacket on, and we won't use the cage anymore. I don't feel good about the cage.
He'll keep for the day. I have other clients to see. Clients that didn't disappoint me. The agreement was clear. There were no safe words. If he couldn't see what was coming, whose fault is that? He wanted Mommy to be mean to him. He is just beginning to understand what 'mean' means.