I was raised by a mom diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Back then, in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, not even the so-called Ph.D’d professionals knew what was going on or how to deal with “crazy.” And if they didn’t know, we – my immigrant English second language family – couldn’t possibly have known. It’s part of why mamma went without any kind of treatment, hearing voices and seeing things that really weren’t there, for far too long, making her a danger to herself and to us.
I still can’t shake memories of a 14-year old me in 1979 helping my papà commit mamma to a hospital psych ward. Part of me exhaled in relief, knowing we were rid of her, even if only for a little while. Another part of me became consumed with guilt over what I then didn’t fully understand had to be done.
For much of my life, I tried to separate my parts, doing my best to distance those genes of insanity that I had inherited through no fault of my own. I kept my mamma at arms-length, afraid of the demons she battled and the parts of her she could not control. And I kept our family’s schizophrenia a secret from the outside world, lest I be subjected to the stigma and discrimination by association.
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Being Still amidst the Hustle and Bustle
I don’t think there’s a more schizophrenic time of year than Christmas. The “hustle and bustle” of the season both energizes and exhausts us. “Peace on Earth” is what we wish for, despite what has become of late a season of terrorized gatherings worldwide. It’s the “Most Wonderful Time of Year” according to Andy Williams’ 1963 carol, “…with the kids jingle belling, and everyone telling you ‘be of good cheer’…only truth be told, it’s not for many of us. The holiday season can even cause those of us who are usually content to experience loneliness, a lack of fulfillment, and depression.
I, myself, have been in a funk since before Thanksgiving rolled around. And not until Christmas Eve when we took a drive to see some local houses all decked out in holiday lights did I even remotely begin to feel as if I wasn’t related to that cave-dwelling green monster with a heart “two sizes too small.” The Grinch in me had clearly forgotten what the spirit of the season really meant, and I had completely dismissed the actual reason for the season, too. [Read more…]
Misunderstanding Mental Illness: How Often It Must Lead to Discounting Physical Ailments & to Keeping Them Secret
“Please, God, don’t make me like Mamma.”
That’s the prayer that became my mantra as a little girl. Morning, noon, and night, it’s what I wished for most.
When I turned 30, I celebrated the fact that my mother’s schizophrenic genes had bypassed me. I thanked God for granting me my freedom from what I feared most: mental illness.
In February of this year, I turned 50. In May, I published The S Word, the first part of my memoir that shares secrets kept while coming of age surrounded by crazy. In June, I returned to my childhood stomping grounds and reconnected with so many grammar school friends, most of whom had no idea what was going on with me and my family back then, but who came to my book signing party as a show of support.
All of these milestones were known to me and planned for. But what I didn’t anticipate was that in July of this year, I would be given a taste of what my mother must have been going through, as my own head began to betray me – not with voices or paranoid thoughts – but with constant debilitating pain, headaches, and a skull that still today is one-half numb. [Read more…]
