Holding onto Hope

It’s easy to see the scars on those who are victims of their own minds. Their lives crumble, they exude a tiredness that is almost contagious, and often the person they are is overshadowed by the illness that is affecting them. They lose part of their identity and so many mentally ill patients feel they will never again find it. And yet, there are so many far reaching effects of the illness that are so rarely considered.

I myself suffer from depression and anxiety, and over the years I have worked so hard to keep up with my most important relationships. I feel like I am constantly working to make those around me understand that despite my physical health being good, my mental health is keeping me in bed or preventing me from doing the most basic of tasks. How can I make those around me understand that I care about them when I often can’t be there for the big moments in their lives or am forgetful. How do I make those around me see how much I love them when I am lost in my own head?

I have been on both sides and despite being so aware of the hardships of the ill person, I still struggle to cope with being the loved one.

My younger brother spent most of our childhood fighting Leukemia. Despite being in constant pain, enduring chemotherapy and celebrating holidays in the oncology wing of the hospital. Even though he was living through hell, he was happy, hyperactive, and the light of every room. He would walk into every party or school day and shout, “Cash is here!” as if he was his own royal herald. He was the first one out of bed in the morning, and would sing at the top of his lungs as the sun came up. Everybody knew and loved him.

He beat cancer. As of today, he is fifteen years in remission. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of his hardships. When he was sixteen, his behavior became more and more erratic. He became reckless, moody, and after a while, we noticed cuts on his arms. One day, he crashed. He wouldn’t get out of bed, wouldn’t eat, and he cried for hours on end. A couple of days became a week, then he was back to normal as if the dark mood had never happened. It started all over again soon after. He was living in a cycle of mental torture and we, his family, were along for the ride. He would verbally attack us over tiny incidents, he would suddenly decide he hated us, then buy us ice cream the next day. The mood swings gave me whiplash and I was terrified all the time that we were missing something important. I was scared that I would never see my brother again because whoever was calling me horrible names and standing on moving cars certainly wasn’t him.

When we finally took him to the hospital he told us we betrayed him, that he would never forgive us, and that he would never speak to us again. I went back and forth between anger and hurt. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the drastic change in personality, and my brother was now using everything he knew about me to destroy our relationship.

He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and hospitalized for a few weeks. The diagnosis was a lifeline for our family. My brother went from being an unbearable monster to being sick again. We knew how to deal with sickness. It was easy to brush off his behavior and love him anyway. We were committed to being his support system, or so we thought.

Anyone who loves someone who is mentally ill knows that getting them stable is a long and painful road. My brother came back from that first hospitalization numb and drugged up. We had a few days where his old self came back to us, and we were given so much hope only to have it ripped away again as he stopped taking his meds and swung up into another manic episode, then crashed yet again.

We want so badly to help him through the medication changes, therapy and psychiatry visits, and the financial hardships that come with them. We try to remember that he is sick and can’t always help himself. And we try so hard not to take his attacks personally. But we are only human and humans get tired. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep because I am scared he will hurt himself. Other days, I can’t handle talking to him because he is mean and easily upset. To make things worse, there is a fifty-fifty chance that the sibling of someone with bipolar disorder will be diagnosed themselves. I constantly analyze my every action and emotion for signs that I have it too.

My question is, through all of this, how can I separate the illness from my brother? Are they the same? Will we ever make it out of this darkness?