Schizophrenic: A Short Story

I never knew deciding my future would have such a tragic back story. I remember when I woke up to the twelve missed calls from my mother the day after Easter. When I saw I had numerous missed calls, I knew something was dreadfully wrong. When I called my mother back, she had told me my uncle Charles had taken his own life. I didn’t know what to feel, or what to think. Two years later, and I still think about him every day. He was sick, not like cancer or something physical. He was sick emotionally, mentally, he was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. I chose the major psychology, because the unbreakable bond my uncle and I shared, the great things psychologist can do for mental health patients, and why I would be great to help families and
He lived a life of demons, voices, and most of all, depression. With all the monsters inside his head, I still only saw him as the compassionate uncle I had known my entire life. He had his good days, but mostly they were bad. They good days though, I will never forget them, and I will hold them in my heart forever. The good days were like diamonds in the ruff. I remember that cheeky grin from ear to ear, the deep belly laugh, and the humorous songs he would make up. Or on a really good day he would sit and have intriguing conversations with me, conspiracy theories, or what he thought heaven was really like. Those days were my favorite. He never seemed to have much to say, and I remember numerous times I would go in his room and cry. I wouldn’t cry for my own sadness, I would cry because I would feel his pain. I could see the sadness in his eyes and I could feel the emptiness in his soul. He would lay there on his bed so lifeless, ready to give up. He would look at me and tell me he loved me, but he couldn’t take the emptiness anymore. All he ever wanted was to be loved. He had all the love he needed, he just couldn’t