At about the age of 13 I found out my mother’s diagnosis, it was Schizophrenia. I was reading through some court papers, that I wasn’t supposed to have been reading, and saw it: “…… has been diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia”. I can’t recall exactly how I felt reading it, but I do know I was a bit relived. For the past 5-6 years I knew my mom wasn’t OK, but I didn’t know what was wrong with her. I didn’t know why she always heard voices, I didn’t know why she would get so angry when we told her we didn’t see the things that she saw. I didn’t know why my mother didn’t hug us or tell us that she loved us. I didn’t understand why she thought the breakfast we made for her on mother’s day, had poison or spit in it.
No one talked to us about why my mom was in and out of the hospital, every couple of years. No one in my family told me my mother had Schizophrenia, I read it in court papers. Whenever I had a chance , I would try to find out more information about the illness, but at my age I didn’t understand what I read, so I just stopped. I just accepted that is what my mother had, and to me, she was uncaring, unstable, irresponsible, and angry.
Despite my feelings, I was always grateful for the values she instilled in us at a young age. During the years, when her recovery periods were short, we were able to still take care of ourselves. We knew how to get ourselves off to school, cook for ourselves and do our school work to maintain good grades. I credit that not only to my mother, but also to my grandparents, and the grace of God. It would be almost two decades before I would be able to separate the symptoms of the illness from my mom. She was not the illness. She was just the opposite. During her periods of her recovery, she was a different woman, and I had to learn to remember the confident, hard-working, big-hearted, loving, smart, and somewhat stubborn woman she will always be. Continue reading