Disclaimer: I do not own Next to Normal.
My first psychiatrist told me that grief that continues past four months is pathological and should be medicated. Four months for the life of my child?
I've tried everything that anyone could possibly suggest, ranging from the practical to the ridiculous; I've been poked and prodded and ingested so many pharmaceuticals you'd think my brain or body or both would have stopped functioning by now; I've listened to many lies, encouragements, warnings, and reassurances, but heard very few; and throughout all of this, I've clung to my fantasy life and the notion that being crazy is actually preferable to being lucid. The thing about crazy is that when you're in such a state, you don't have to be aware of what you've lost or are losing or might lose in the future. Hiding among delusions is a defensive strategy, and one that I'm very adept at.
I have two children: one is my perfect Golden Boy, a musician and athlete, popular, with good grades and good looks and a good heart, intent on working in the field of medicine and certain to realize his dream; the other is a reserved young woman, and in all honesty, I can't say much beyond that. I know she plays piano. I know she keeps herself out of trouble. When I'm more aware of myself, I quickly arrive at the assumption that she must hate me. But even with hating me, I often reason, she's fine. She has a father who loves her; she doesn't need such an incompetent mother as I am.
Dan is fine as well. He goes out to work, picks up the pieces, looks after Natalie; he's moved on, been able to let go; he doesn't dwell on the past, doesn't talk about what happened and doesn't have to. He asks me to do the same. But I can't, I can't just grieve and get over it—will not accept that the life of my child is worth only an arbitrarily allotted four months.