The regiment of medications we give Benjamin is complex.  He has taken a thyroid supplement since he was a baby, so that is nothing new. It wasn't until he was seventeen that he began the mood stabilizers that we and his psychiatrist continue to monitor. Morning, afternoon and evening each have their own one inch compartments for a variety of pills. He downs them without water.

Last night he was playing with Legos, an activity that sometimes follows in the aftermath of an ambitious therapist prodding him to clean his room. I heard the distinctive sounds of a hundred plastic pieces being spilled and scooped. But I forgot to remind him to take his evening pills. 

Somewhere in the early hours, the ones I was familiar with back in those baby years, Benjamin was singing. Loudly. Without the meds that regulate his cycles he found no reason to be quiet just because the rest of us were. What's the fun in that?

It occurred to me that I could drag myself downstairs, find the pillbox, and hand them to him. But that sounded really, really hard. So I put a pillow over my head. 

Before we succumbed to hospitalizing him, midnight serenades were common. And infuriating. I blamed him completely for his insistence on being awake. As if sleep is something any of us can control. 

But I put two and two together, even at two a.m. and could not fault him. I was the one who had neglected to give him what he needed. 

Blame is a confounding little nuisance, when it comes to compassion. If we decide that someone's behavior is their fault, it is tempting to withhold love and chide them instead. Yet it may be possible that they simply didn't get what they really need.