Two years, three months, and 11 days ago, we sent our son away.

We didn’t want to, and we did. It had been 11 years since Tim’s first diagnosis. Over those years there were 12 hospitalizations, 27 different med combinations, seven therapeutic day schools, one suicide attempt, six broken doors, nine different doctors, and a partridge in a pear tree. We couldn’t get Tim stable at home, and the mental health of everyone else in the house was deteriorating. We couldn’t take anymore, but I didn’t know how I’d live without him. The glimpses of Stable Tim were priceless treasures of goofy humor, deep affection, and boundless compassion. But those glimpses had become so few and far between that I feared that if we didn’t take this drastic step, I might never see them again. He had just turned 15 years old.

Read the rest at Support for Special Needs.