Thirty-two years ago my talented, smart and handsome younger brother David left for college.  Six months later, he was in a veteran’s hospital (our father was a Naval officer) where he was diagnosed with schizophrenia.

He had become increasingly alienated at his college.  Without the unconditional love and understanding of a nearby family, the quirkiness in his personality - which had sometimes set him apart from his contemporaries - took a sharp left turn. An obsessive interest in mushrooms (an interest which had succeeded other obsessive interests) led him to experiment with psychedelic varieties, and this - coupled with his social and emotional deficits -  knocked his fragile psyche off-balance.

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I and my siblings had a mother who lived with schizophrenia. My mother loved us dearly, but due to her illness, she was often unable to be a caring and supportive mother. With her illness and an alcoholic father, our childhood was very difficult and unstable. As I grew older, I didn’t want to keep it a “secret” anymore and refused to let others stigmatize me or treat me, any differently than anyone else.

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I would like to tell my story, partly for myself and partly to possible help others understand that they are not alone.

My mother was diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia when I was 6 years old. My father was absent, and once my mother became sick, so were the rest of our family members. As you can imagine, it was not easy being alone with a mentally ill parent. Until I was 10 or so, my mother had very few “bad days”. However, over time she stopped taking her medication, lost her job and became very abusive. I was just a child and did not know really how to handle the situation. So, I hid it the best I could.

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Living with a family member who has schizophrenia is like sitting atop a mountain high in the clouds; you can see normal people far below, but the prospect of joining them seems impossible.

From age 10 onwards I’d witnessed my mother withdraw from the world, put on black clothing, answer to different names, and lend greater credence to the voices in her head than those of her own family. I’d hidden in the basement with my younger brother while my father spoke to cops and paramedics upstairs, my mother shouted abuse and cried and finally begged, led off to the psychiatric clinic for the latest forced committal. Entire seasons would pass with my father holding things together and then, just as we were beginning to find a kind of normality, we’d receive encouraging words from doctors about Mom’s recovery. And so we’d trek to the hospital for visits, at first supervised by medical staff and then not, making small-talk with a woman who seemed like a stranger and scrutinizing her face for signs: was she really better? Inevitably, because we loved her and wanted to believe, she’d come home. And for a time there was a fragile happiness. She laughed, displayed the childlike enthusiasm that held both kids and adults entranced, and even hosted parties for a social circle of Bengalis who my parents had known ever since emigrating to Canada in the late 70’s. Beneath the elaborately prepared Indian dishes and careful conversation lay a declaration: she is better now. Our family is whole. That dark chapter is past.  But then she’d begin to complain about the side-effects of the medication. She’d stop speaking and start listening to voices we couldn’t hear. The heaviness we’d tried so hard to repel would return and you’d hate yourself for ever having believed otherwise. The cycle of committals, recovery and eventual relapse would continue and you wanted to spit in the face of anyone who seemed happy: it was an illusion, a sucker’s bet.

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My name is Yvonne West and I am a 31 year old woman living in the city of Philadelphia. I have grown up around loved ones who suffer from mental illness. One person in my life that suffers from it is my younger brother Jason. He is 29 years old and suffers from Autism with severe developmental delay and mild schizophrenia.

My brother was diagnosed with Autism at four years old and later was found to have mild schizophrenia when he became a young adult, after he mentioned to psychologist that he heard voices telling him to do harmful things. He was violent towards many people including me and my parents. There were moments I remember hearing my mother tell me about parents of children on our block not wanting them to play with my brother because of how physically aggressive he was with them. I found some of those children would not come outside when my brother came running out with me. My mother told me about the time when my brother at the age of five or six got violent with me when I was only seven or eight years old causing one of my fingers to snap out of socket. I do not recall this incident happening but I am sure it hurt. She furthermore, explained that she spent a couple minutes getting my finger back in its socket and saw my brother not show any remorse and my father entered the house acting as if he never saw anything.

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5 years ago, my father committed suicide. It still bothers me to this day, and is the reason I cannot sleep at night. I should have known how to help, but all I can do now is focus on myself. I’ve been under mental heath management for almost 6 years, and I don’t regret one second. Although, I miss my father more than anything, I am grateful for my family, who love me, and the support I’ve received over the years. #ITS TIME

My son Tim was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia in January of 2003, after his first semester at Vanderbilt University.  He was 18 years.  His senior year of high school, Tim’s mood severely changed.  He lost interest in studying and it was difficult getting him out of bed for school.  It was clear something was seriously wrong.  He argued with his teachers and his grades plunged.  I worried if he would even graduate. Friends and family told me he was just ‘acting like a boy’ and it would pass. 

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I guess suicide and mental illnesses as well as addiction runs in my family. Seen my brother almost cut off his hand bc his schizophrenia was telling him to, seen him almost die from my father’s hands. Seen my sister with a half paper plate shoved into her mouth because she sucked her thumb. Been in crisis where suicide was the only option.

It was never about how dirty the house was or how many newspapers you had saved overtime or the amount of magnets you had on both fridges. It was the draining effect of what your mental illness would bring. What mom was I going to see today? Will she be nice and funny? Will she be mean and hurtful? Will she be sad and kept to herself? Everyday was different. Each had a little twist to them. From bipolar to manic to depression the things that are forbidden to be talked about. Yet they take so much away from people. I never hated you I just hated your illness. I hated that you became mean in a blink of an eye or you get sad within seconds and I did love when you were funny because we could crack jokes but all it took was for one little thing and you’d switch. I never wanted this for you. All I wanted was my mom. Your illness took over and it was so hard to love you. When you knew how to take the wound you opened and twist and dig it deeper. I know one day ill look back and be thankful for all the lessons learned and maybe help others one day, but for now I just want to help you.