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My Brother

by N. Phillips

To put these words on paper is weird, yet I feel a sense of euphoric courage in sharing this story.

My brother.

He suffers from schizophrenia.

The symptoms began when he was 18 years old. What started as a seemingly innocent interest in the bible turned into a chaotic menage of battles between good and evil, God and the devil, and his role as the supreme being in the midst of it all. People were not to be trusted including the food they prepared, and whisperings of takeovers, death and despair, vast riches and sitting atop the throne all percolated in his mind.

As a family, we cared for him as best we could. Repeated visits to the hospital to try to admit him, most of which was in vain because it was concluded that “nothing was wrong with him”. We would scour the streets looking for him when he would run away. We would remind him to take his medication EVERY single day, despite his arguments that we were “forcing” him to take medication he did not need. We dodged his attempts to “fight” and always was weary of his paranoia-induced verbal and physical attacks on us. We pushed ahead trying to get him the help he needed in a system that had no clear path to follow. The only advice we received from police and medical professionals was that we could not force him to get help or admit him to the hospital unless he “hurt himself or someone else”.

On September 9, 2009, he took the life of our mother.

She was possessed with evil and had to be saved in order for her to continue to live without turmoil.

Do I hate him? No. He’s sick and for all intents and purposes he did a noble thing. Saving the world from the impending evil that had usurped our mother.

He is now 32 years old. This illness continues to be an upstream battle for him with no end in sight, but we are keeping strong, because he is keeping strong, and we owe him at least that much, to stand beside him while he is trying to fight this disease.

Now, this is a task that is not to be taken lightly nor does it become “routine” or “desensitized”. You never get “used to it” no matter how many times you must interact with this illness, nor does it get “easier” with time. Each and every week I visit him or talk to him on the phone is heartbreaking because that is not my brother. That is not who I grew up with, shared a crib with so we could make a “tent” with our covers, or got in trouble with for coming home late after losing track of time at a friend’s house.

It has been over 4 years since we lost our mother. He still believes that she is alive and cannot wait to see her “and hug and kiss her” now that she is saved and no longer evil.

For families that are going through this – No, it is not easy and I understand your pain. You want to give up; you flip flop between sympathy, anger, compassion and frustration and just want to throw your hands up.
But you don’t.

Simply because you love who you are caring for. No, it is not easy, and I commend every family member who has sacrificed so much in their attempts to get their loved ones help. My hat’s off to you, because you are the real heroes.

~ Nadine Phillips

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