|Tales to Tell: #Collected|

Writer: Anonymous

I was twelve years old when my mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia, more specifically, paranoid schizophrenia. For those of you who are unaware, schizophrenia is a chronic and severe mental disorder characterized by distortions in thinking, perception, emotions, language, sense of self and behaviour. Common experiences include hallucinations – hearing voices or seeing things that are not there and delusions.

Here’s the thing about schizophrenia – it’s like a parasite; it slowly takes over the brain, feeds on its thoughts, hopes, dreams and fears and then, when it is powerful enough, its tentacles wrap around the person so tightly and consumes them so completely that before you know it, the person you loved is gone.

Initially, when the symptoms started to appear, my father and I almost gave into her delusions. We strained our ears and tried to hear the voices she kept talking about but we heard nothing. There was only silence. That’s when we realized that something was terribly wrong.

She was diagnosed a few months later and put on medication. But like most patients with schizophrenia, my mother refused to continue with her treatment and that’s when things took turn for the worse. The voices in her head grew louder, and everyone was out to get her.

I was instructed by all the adults in my family, including my father, to not talk about it outside my house. “Don’t mention this to your friends”– they said. It became the family secret.

So why am I talking about it now?

Schizophrenia didn’t just take my mother – it took a lot more. It cost me a normal relationship with my mother. It took away my chance at having an ordinary childhood. For years I was plagued with guilt, shame and loneliness. I coped with it the only way I knew I could, by repressing the bad memories and numbing the pain to distract myself from the sadness. Soon, it started affecting my mental health.

Five years ago I realized that I didn’t need to suffer in silence; that it was okay to talk about my experience. It was difficult but eventually I started confiding in my close friends and that actually helped.

If you are going through a similar experience, I hope this post helps you and makes you feel a little less alone in your struggle against this vicious illness.

If you know someone who is going through this – talk to them. Don’t offer them your sympathy. Don’t tell them things like “I am sorry that you have to go through this” – the last thing they need is pity. Just ask them how they are doing; they will probably say they are doing great and that’s a lie but ask them regardless. You can’t fix them or take away their pain but you can at least show them that you are there for them when they need you. A little compassion and empathy goes a long way.

As for me, I am still learning to deal with my issues, every single day. But now I have also learned to ask for help and that has made all the difference.

Dear Son. (throwback series)

(This is a throwback series, I had written them and uploaded them here and there but now, I thought it was time, to compile them and study my growth. As a writer, a person. Most people don’t know this, but I have been writing since my 10th standard and had written my first blog post in 2015. Having never been popular most of them have gone unread. Anyway. Here’s the first of the throwback series written sometime in the December of 2015.
Dislaimer: Please don’t throw shade. At present, I, myself do not agree with everything I had written for I have grown and changed but I didn’t want to edit my thoughts as that would be a duplicitous way to chart my growth. Thank you.)

Dear Son,
When I was 16, I was really beautiful. I was wild and young and free. I made decisions and unmade them. Made promises and broke them. Made love and broke hearts. I never let anybody grow close enough to me. I was not made to be confined. I was born to be free.

So many boys wooed me. Silly boys, I tell you. After I crushed their hearts I even heard them make jokes about me to their friends and funnily enough, the very next day, another lad from that very group would approach me. I went out with them. Almost all of them. Told them the same stories about how I loved being free and about how I despised seriousness. It almost didn’t matter to them. None of them ever tried to make me stay. None. After a few days. I’d tell them I was bored and they left.

Then I turned 18. A few things changed. The sitting and talking in park benches changed to slightly dark alleys or empty classrooms. There were conversations and kisses. But those kisses almost meant nothing to me. They were a part of my freedom. My exploration. I broke so many hearts but the boys never gave up on wooing me and I never questioned why. I never did wonder why they’d still want to date me when all I wanted was nothing with them.

By the time I was 21, I had slept with quite a few men. They fulfilled my needs and I fulfilled theirs. Honestly, I never did feel immoral. I just did that because that made me feel like I was making my choices and handling them well. And men still continued to intrigue me. They seemed to love the one week flings. I don’t blame them. I loved them too. There were no attachments. I was free. No confinements.

When I was 25 I met your father. It was very regular. One Friday night he offered to buy me coffee after I returned his wallet that fell from his pocket while pulling out his handkerchief to show a little kid a tiny trick. That mug of coffee led to another mug of coffee and to months of mugs of coffees. After about three months of just going on coffee dates, I figured he wanted to stay. Mind you, your father was the only boy in my ever so colourful life that volunteered to stay. Years passed and many of the happiest things in my life happened. I got a job, I got married, you happened and I thought my life had been finally sorted. But a quest for something can be a bad thing.

Today you are 9 and I don’t expect you to understand all this. I don’t even want you to read this now but when you do please understand my abandoning you was not a choice. I was not made for this. I don’t want to cheat on you or your father. But I want to be free again. I want to go and explore. And I want you never to become like your mother. Be the man your father was to your mother but find a woman who isn’t driven by a quest or a thirst because they cannot be contained. Not forever at least. And dare you not believe in relationships. They happen all the time.

When you are 16 and brimming with handsomeness, remember who your mother wanted you to be and you will make the right decisions.

Love,
Mother.