Every single day I wake up and wonder where he is. Is he healthy? Is he hungry? Is he hurt? Worst of all is not knowing if he's managed to survive, and when the phone rings in the night I am almost too afraid to answer. Is he still alive?
We tried to help him, convince him that he could have a better life, but the drugs made him drowsy, the drugs made him numb. The drugs took away the brother who I knew and who I loved, who I feared but adored for his brilliance and his strength, the brother who I've lost to some other place. His is a tortured life, with fears that abound, of things no one else can see, of his internal clowns. His intentions are good, but his process is a pain. He tries so hard to be the way he knows that he should be, but his is a world not quite the same. In his world he is haunted by the voices in his head, convinving him to do the things he knows are very bad.
I have not seen him since that summer night, about a year ago. His beard had grown long, his hair was in tangles and he smelled of fith and wine. He had not eaten in a week, had lost 100 pounds, and as he stood I saw him sway, unsteady as he was. He weighed no more than 90 pounds, a man once 200. As I carried him to the house he began the chanting. The house was a trigger, his childhood home, and the ghosts and voices swarmed him as I tried to keep him calm.
He settled in the corner as I made him some food, squatting in the darkness, rocking as he spoke to the voices I knew were all his own.
As I washed and cut his hair, I wondered when I would find him next, and prayed that someday he would see that I'm his only chance. I am the only connection he has to the common world, the only bit of realiaty his weak mind can comprehend.
As winter apporaches I fear for him now, and await his christmas visit, knowing he will bring a gift, of some doll or matchbox car that would make his little sister, only four, the luckiest girl in the city. And I will play with that doll, car or figure made of sicks and twine until I know he is fed, warm and given some money, a warm coat, some socks and boots, gloves, a hat and a bar of soap. And his small gift will be placed next to every other one, a tribute to the brother I have lost more than once.
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So sad. This is a fiction story, right? It's well-written and full of empathy. very nice.
Actually, its true. My older brother is very much mentally ill.