Walk with me

They gave my brother a diagnosis of schizophrenia. Unfortunately, right to his paranoid face. He angrily rejected the diagnosis and any treatment or medication plan. I did not understand why they could not say this treatment would help him with his anxiety or his OCD. These were mental issues he did not feel embarrassed to claim.

This sounds pessimistic so far, but the fact that someone was able to diagnose him pleasantly shocked me because my mom never got to that point. My younger sister, dad and I (mostly my younger sister and dad) diligently and gently helped him into the treatment center and encouraged him to see the psychiatrist. So whether he accepted a diagnosis or not was less of a loss. He was where someone might be able to help him and that was a miracle.

The cops found my brother on the ground, blacked out and drunk near the dugout he had been sleeping in, in a small Wisconsin town. The local cop told my dad he had been keeping an eye on him for months. He would sleep in the abandoned dugout when it was warm enough and in the laundromat if it was too cold. The cop coached my dad to stop enabling him.

I wondered how long it had gone on. My best guess was since November when he hit a deer and totaled the car my dad had given him. He asked my dad for a new car at that time. My dad would have given him one if I had not happened to be home after calling off my wedding with my ex.

My dad asked me if I would give my brother my car. My dad would give me my grandma's SUV. She was not able to drive anymore since her dementia had progressed.

I shocked myself and said no. It was not easy. I cried telling my dad no. I had so little to stand on after leaving my ex. I myself needed a lot of help at that time. I wanted my grandma's SUV. The car I had was old and worn and my mom, sister, and I had been homeless in that car for a period of time. I would have loved to get rid of that constant reminder of it.

But somehow in that moment, I refused to enable my brother. I saw how years of enablement made it impossible for my mom to get any type of treatment for her mental illness. Thankfully, my step mom agreed with my stance and supported my decision to keep my car instead of getting my grandma's SUV if it meant enabling my brother.

My dad ultimately ended up giving me my grandma's SUV and my dad sold my car for me. I struggled with overwhelming guilt at that time, but I now know it is one of the small reasons my brother ended up in a treatment center months later.

I squirmed when I saw him sitting on the bench. I would carefully run by him almost every day. Some days he would be sleeping, some days he would look at me. He was a dark, heavy presence in a relatively wealthy suburb of Orlando. Then one day, I saw him off of his usual bench and in a different spot, facing the woods. He looked like he was trying to blend in and avoid drawing any attention, but he was obese. It was hard not to see him or smell him when you passed by. I saw my brother in him. I see my brother and my mom in so many people who are homeless, these people I desperately wish I could save.

“Do you want part of my orange?” I ask a man who walks up to my car in Orlando at a stoplight. That is all I have to offer right now. I know I cannot give as much as I did in the past. When I was younger, I gave so much that I went hungry and I went into debt. I had no idea that people would keep taking if you let them and that eventually it was your responsibility to stop giving and find your edges. But I learned to live this way when I was just a kid and the person who needed me was my mom. It is not quick and easy to unlearn the way you grow up living.

My younger sister pressured me into working on getting my brother into a rehab facility after he ended up in detox. I resisted because I could see my brother was still resisting. How much can you help someone who does not want help?

But thankfully, she saw this as our chance to get him somewhere that could stabilize him. I was afraid of helping because I tried for so many years to save my mom and because collaborating with my sister on family matters can be hard. I helped anyway. In her usual way of functioning under stress, she ordered me to do things and was critical of me when I did them slightly differently than she thought I should do them. I know she was doing her best. It was disturbing and traumatic for all of us. And we worried if we made one wrong move, our brother would be back out on the streets. She missed weeks of work and I could barely focus on anything other than my brother.

My brother smelled when we finally saw him after he was released from detox. His clothes were oversized. He had a sore on his shoulder that was purple-y and raised. I did not know what the sore could be from but worried it was from hard drug use or frostbite. We could see he had been starving. He lived outside during the winter in Wisconsin and seeing him made it impossible to ignore that reality.

Although my dad, my sister and I coaxed him into staying at a treatment center, he still did not think he had a mental illness or a drug problem. He only stayed there because we gave him no other options. "My only problem is that I don't have a job," he would say, "I just need a place to live and a job." My mom used to say the exact same thing to me.

In my sadness, I became angry with him when I visited him. I am embarrassed to say I debated with my brother about what he needed. I thought if I were honest with him, he might listen. I was wrong, he couldn't listen. He did not need a job, he needed mental health care, I said.

However, I knew my anger would not do anything for him. My own ego was leading me to debate with someone whose mind was a bit blurred by mental illness.

I felt a sense of peace when I realized my anger was showing up for so many reasons. I was sad to see him struggle and I was sad I could not heal his brain or fix his situation. It feels like watching a part of myself struggle. I wondered why my brother, why not me or anyone else? And my anger was showing up because I had pushed myself beyond what I could handle in trying to help him. My anger showed me that my sister (with the purest intentions) pushed me into supporting him in ways I was not able to.

I still do not know if there is anything else I can do to help him and that is exasperating. I am resigned to being alongside him when I can be with him without hurting or limiting myself. I moved back to Minnesota so I can easily visit him now. And I am becoming a nurse practitioner to hopefully make an impact on the lives and treatment of people like my brother and my mom.