My brother had schizophrenia, Our family will never recover

Anonymous

Being an advocate is a role I never thought I could do. When I was a young adult, my brother’s schizophrenia and its effects on our family were too traumatizing for me. It is not easy watching an illness rob a loved one of their future. Seeing the illness up close brought guilt, sadness, and regret, not to mention fear and anger. Much of the time, I avoided thinking about him or his illness. It was easier to pretend his schizophrenia didn’t exist. 

But now that I am more mature and have a family of my own, I can no longer stay silent. I know I must speak out and do what I can to change the way serious brain disorders are treated in this country so that future generations no longer have to suffer. 

Growing up, I envied my brother Eric in just about every aspect—he was more confident, wittier, and seemed to make friends without effort. He was smart and kind-hearted. A stand-out athlete, Eric loved sports, especially basketball. He was two years older than me, and even though he teased me sometimes, he watched out for his little sister. 

During childhood, he showed no obvious signs that things were amiss. As a teen, he did drink and smoke marijuana, but that wasn’t so unusual. Ours was a two-parent family with a house in the suburbs—no trauma, abuse, or unusual circumstances. No one would have imagined that schizophrenia lay dormant in his brain, ready to strike in young adulthood.

As he went off to college, Eric seemed to have a bright future ahead. He enjoyed his classes, particularly philosophy and English, and got decent grades. The summer after his freshman year, he was ambitious enough to start a summer business with a friend, renting out beach boogie boards. But not long after, he began veering off his path. He dropped out of college, moved back to our parents’ home and drifted aimlessly for months. 

He worked his way through several menial jobs—pizza delivery, cook, landscaping—quitting each one within weeks, sometimes days. Then he stopped working altogether, broke up with his girlfriend and no longer spent time with friends. 

He rarely showered and wore odd, mismatched thrift store clothing. Sometimes he would disappear from home and turn up several days later. He spent most of his time holed up in his room or roaming the woods near our house. He was nocturnal, staying up all night, then crashing in the morning. 

There were other odd behaviors. Once when I was playing the piano, he sidled up to me and began banging away on the keys like a child. He seemed mesmerized by the sound, even though he had never played before. I overheard him making plans to form a rock band and become a musician, though he had never been musical. He lived in his own reality. 

One afternoon, I heard him laughing in his room. I looked in and noticed a wild glint in his eye as he sat alone on his bed. “What’s so funny?” I asked. He said he was remembering a joke, but his explanation didn’t ring true. I began to feel afraid, but of what, I couldn’t say. I started locking my bedroom door at night.

Delusions of grandeur, trouble sleeping, inappropriate laughter, social withdrawal—the signs of a serious brain illness were there. But although my parents were desperately worried, the possibility of schizophrenia never dawned on them, or me. 

And why would it? “Crazy” was Jack Nicholson in “The Shining,” or the homeless person muttering to himself on the street. Looking back, I shake my head at how naïve we were.

Nonetheless, my parents were concerned enough to take him to a psychiatrist. The doctor misdiagnosed him with depression. Eric refused any medication, insisting there was nothing wrong. “You’re the ones who are depressed,” he would say to us. My parents couldn’t convince him to go back. Untreated, his disease progressed.

Eric didn’t tell anyone he was hearing voices. He didn’t say a word about his bizarre thoughts, which we would learn about only later. He believed the girlfriend he had recently broken up with had died of cancer (she was alive and well). He fixated on my dad, who he thought was somehow trying to harm us. 

At times, he thought he was an NBA star—other times, a famous musician. He heard newscasters commenting on him, broadcasting his actions to the world. Birds called him the “Son of God.”’ He was a shaman and a doctor. At times, he didn’t know if he was dead or alive. As absurd as these delusions seemed, to him they were reality. 

Like 40 to 50 percent of people with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, Eric had anosognosia, a symptom that prevents a person from understanding they are ill. His lack of insight into his own brain illness is why, when he had the opportunity to be treated by a psychiatrist, he refused. He didn’t believe he was ill. No matter how many times my parents tried, they could not convince him to seek treatment, and because he was an adult, no one could make him.

I often wonder what life might have been like if we could have forced him into treatment. With a proper diagnosis and medication, maybe his voices could have been quieted, and he could have come to his senses before acting on his delusions. 

I was at work that day in late August when my mother called me with the news. I couldn’t comprehend what I was hearing. Eric had attacked my father with a hammer, striking him multiple times in the head. My father was flown to shock trauma, where he underwent emergency surgery to remove parts of his skull from his brain. He was put into a medically induced coma, and we didn’t know whether he would survive.

Eric was arrested and taken to jail. After a psychiatric evaluation, he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, a chronic brain disorder that involves delusions and an altered perception of reality. Once he was treated with medication, the fog began to lift, and he realized the horror of what he had done. His letters and phone calls to my mother revealed a distraught and terrified young man. When we visited him in jail, he appeared confused and often cried. 

My father, meanwhile, spent months in a rehabilitation center and was left with a brain injury that impaired his balance, his eyesight and cognitive function. Miraculously, he recovered the ability to walk and talk but could no longer work.

After waiting in jail for a year, Eric was found “not criminally responsible” due to his schizophrenia and was transferred to a secure state hospital, where he received treatment. After another two years, he was released to group housing and community services. He complied with his treatment and lived a semi-independent life with the support of my parents. He was never violent again. He volunteered with NAMI educating others about schizophrenia and got a job with a mental health organization helping others with serious brain disorders. But until his death eight years ago from a heart condition, he struggled daily with guilt.

In the months when Eric was in jail, I wrote him letters trying to understand why he would want to harm our father—a kind and gentle man who loved us and did everything he could for his family. I would try but fail to square his actions with the brother I had shared my childhood with. It simply made no sense. 

And then I realized, that was the point. His actions didn’t make any sense, because his brain was severely impaired. The organ he relied on to make rational decisions was malfunctioning. His brain synapses were misfiring, creating a distorted reality. 

In one of my brother’s letters, written after he was on antipsychotic medication, one line stood out: “You could come to the conclusion that I am a ruthless person and did a horrible act that shouldn’t be forgiven,” he wrote. “Or you could come to the conclusion that I was out of my mind due to an illness that had manifested years before and completely caused my self-destruction, as my history shows.”

There were only two choices. He was not a ruthless, evil person—he was just an unlucky young man. 

Today, I advocate for all those unlucky enough to be stricken with a serious brain disorder through no fault of their own. Too many people are suffering—not only those who are ill but also their families. Alone I can’t make a difference. But by joining other advocates at NSSC, I hope, together, we can create a better future. 


If you have personal experience with serious brain disorders—whether as a family member, a professional, or a person with an illness—we encourage you to share your story. Email [email protected].

If you are as passionate about the need to build a more compassionate world for those suffering from serious brain disorders and their families, please join our coalition. Together, we can change the world.

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