mental illness – sparkledame

My schizophrenic brother & I: A true story.

Why didn’t Claudia call me? What I told her was significant. No, but why didn’t she call me?
Americans are terorists. Americans are terrorists.

“Hey MEB, do you ever miss living in the United States?”

What is the correct answer here? If I say yes will he get mad because Americans are apparently terrorists? Nevermind that our mother is American and I’m a U.S. citizen.

“Umm, sometimes I do. I lived many of my formative years in the U.S.”

“Okay, okay.”

The earth is Queen. We have not been good to the earth. They told us not to fly. Flying is not good for the earth.

“MEB, do people still take planes?”

“Umm, yes they do. Sometimes people need to visit their families.”

“They told us not to fly.”

“I know. It’s a complicated issue.”

When the fleurs de lis returns everything will be right. No, but how did she know? How did she know?”

“Mike?”

“Ya?”

“That big pile of matches is making me nervous. You’re not burning candles are you? I’m scared of having a fire.”

“I’m not burning candles.”

“Okay, good. Thanks.”

“MEB? Do you trust Dr. Doukas?”

“Yes, I trust her completely. We are very lucky to have her as our family doctor.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She’s excellent.”

Americans are terrorists. No, but they’re terrorists. Why didn’t Claudia call me back? What I told her was significant. No, but how did she know?

“I’m going to go under soon.”

“What does that mean Mike? You’re going to die?”

“I’m just going to go under.”

“Okay. But if you start feeling suicidal please tell me. I don’t want to lose you.”

Americans are terrorists. Americans are terrorists.

My Heart

I miss you.
I’m grieving.
I know, I know, technically speaking you’re not dead.
You just spent five weeks visiting us, so obviously you’re very much alive.
But I miss the you that was my brother before my brother turned into the kind of person you see walking down the street and say:
“Oh that poor soul.”

You are that poor soul.
The one who thinks his apartment is bugged.
The one who talks to himself all day and all night.
Some of what you say scares me a bit, so when you visit I close my bedroom door tightly and turn on the white noise machine to block you out.
And then I think of my other brother, who when he last visited bought us very sharp kitchen knives because our dull ones drove him nuts.
Should I hide those knives?

But how can I be scared of you?
You and I used to be so tight.
Remember when we went out on that fishing boat in Florida? And the water was so choppy that I started throwing up and the vomit just flew past my head and you were laughing and I was laughing and there was that weird couple who chainsmoked the entire trip?

That time in childhood when we were getting up to mischief and we accidentally locked ourselves in my bedroom closet? Yelling for our mom to rescue us, but also giggling.

For a short while you were the lead singer of a metal cover band and I went to see you perform at Barrymores in Ottawa. You had the most beautiful long golden ringlets and you banged your head up and down like the guy from Metallica and I was so proud of you.

But now, apparently there are multiple fatwas against you.
I had to google fatwa:
“A ruling on a point of Islamic law given by a recognized authority.”
You also said that you are an Angel.
If you are an angel, shouldn’t you be able to wave your magic angel wand and get rid of the fatwas?
Those are my actual thoughts, though of course I don’t share them with you.

We both still love junk food, so when you visit I buy cheezies and kit kat bars, leaving them on the kitchen counter for you ~ little offerings for the dead.

I love you so deeply, but Dear God you are exhausting to be with.
Like an experienced vampire you suck the life out of me and when you leave I crumple to the floor, exhausted.
I have enough tears to water a whole forest, but I have difficulty crying. The tears don’t spill out of my eyes, instead they fill up my lungs until I can’t breathe.
No sobbing.
Just choking on sadness.

Snow Angels

When I was a child I used to make snow angels in our backyard with my youngest brother. Dressed in our bulky snowsuits, we would lie under the beautiful star-filled sky and move our arms and legs in rhythm. We would remain lying down and then just talk. I remember telling him all about the planets one time because I was obsessed with Saturn’s rings. Eventually we would get too cold, or our mom would call us inside, but before leaving we would admire our angels.

Now, this same brother thinks he is an angel, an actual angel. And not just any angel, but Archangel Michael, the only angel who is mentioned by name in the Bible, the Quran and the Torah. My brother told me this about two months ago when we were sitting outside on a patio on an unseasonably warm day. I was drinking wine and he was having a beer. I asked him what it meant to be Archangel Michael and he replied that he could create miracles.

I’ve been dealing with my brother’s mental illness for many years now and I sometimes use humor to cope. So in my mind I thought:

“Fabulous! If you can create miracles then can you please start by eradicating Covid, (or as he calls it, “the plague”) and then next can you please cure me of Peritoneal Mesothelioma?“

Instead I listened to him, nodding my head and I ordered a second glasss of wine.

In some ways my brother is lucky. He lives in a nice apartment on a nice street and he has enough money to live comfortably. My parents supplement his disability – disability payments put you living at the poverty line by the way. And my mom buys him new winter coats and boots and running shoes when he needs them. He needs new running shoes fairly often because he self-medicates by exercising obsessively. Dangerously long jogs and bike rides in the middle of the night. He keeps vampire hours staying up late, then waking at dinnertime.

He will not see a doctor, let alone a psychiatrist. Based on years of spending time with him and research, I’m guessing he’s on the schizophrenia spectrum, the autism spectrum and has OCD. Of course I could easily be 100% wrong.

Had he been born into a different kind of family, he could easily be homeless. One time I saw him walking down the street having a very animated conversation with himself and I thanked God for bringing him to our family where he is protected.

This holiday season, like so many others, I am burnt out. I have nothing left to give or say. I just want to take a Xanax, curl up under a blanket and listen to old Kate Bush songs. I don’t want to decorate or bake or cook or make conversation. But oh what I would give to make snow angels with my brother again. To have him back for just one night.