Growing up as a first-generation Sicilian with “English Second Language” parents immediately turned me into the family translator (or, as first introduced in the infamous “Godfather” movies: the consigliere – a position of 
leadership counsel within the Mafia). My being raised by a mom who was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, and who was barely able to care for herself, let alone her four kids, added to my role as la piccola mamma (Italian for “little mother” as my father often called me). Add to all that, my younger sister also being diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when we both were in our twenties, and to whom I became official guardian, and the trajectory into the bigger role of family caregiver is one I took on, whether I wanted to or not, beginning at the age of ten and continuing well into my 40s.
I have a lot of experience as an “unintentional” caregiver. And first thing I know to be true is that few people actually sign up for the role. With rare exception, it just seems to happen. Someone gets sick. Someone loses an income. Someone is born with a major disability. Someone is not aging well.
When it comes to caregiving, it’s always about someone. Someone else.
And that’s where I think we caregivers get into trouble. That’s when we begin to lose ourselves. That’s when we might resent that someone else. That’s when we feel stuck, alone, trapped. And that’s when we’re no longer what’s best for ourselves, let alone someone else.
