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My big brother was my hero, my friend and my knight in shining armor; he was wrenched from me by mental illness when I was five. My parents tried to shield me and my other siblings from the horror my brother was going through but it was still devastating. After his psychotic breakdown it seemed like he was dead; I grieved but wasn’t able to have closure. Even worse, I was constantly afraid that I would become mentally ill. I learned very young about the anguish of stigmas and secrets.

In High School I became close friends with two people who had mental illnesses; we were bound together by the secrets we shared. Young adulthood brought questions of its own; I began to wonder about the source of mental illnesses and was no longer able to accept the explanations of the time. I always had a feeling that it was a chemical imbalance but the medical community as a whole did not yet understand this.

I was afraid I would pass on the illness to my children. When I tried to discuss this with a counselor she became angry and told me I was being ridiculous. Time has proved her wrong; two years ago my only funny, talented, intelligent son had a psychotic breakdown just shy of his seventeenth birthday. Dealing with his illness has brought back horrible memories of my childhood. When the professionals and the school officials try to tell me how to help my son I listen but I also listen to my instincts; after all the treatment of mental illness still isn’t an exact science and I have as much experience as anyone.