I look for books compulsively. Every shop I go into I head straight for the psychology section. If I can only read enough books, learn enough about this sickness, I'd feel better. Feel prepared or something. Feel like I could be able to help him. I tell myself I'd feel better if I knew why. I don't think I'll ever know why. And honestly I probably already know everything I'll ever know about the condition.
But I buy books. Scientific summaries of the illness and what they know about it, what causes they've isolated, how it affects one's social skills, symptoms. Memoirs. First hand accounts of people succumbing to the death grip of this enigmatic malady. I bought a book written for people like me, a manual of sorts.
One thing so many books have in common is the use of the word "madness." I gotta say, it rubs me the wrong way. To me, the word brings to mind kings of old in their grand castles, raving and throwing things at their loyal servants or advisors, starting wars that make no sense, acting cruelly and out if their minds. Not my Danny. He's not crazy. He's just sick.
But I guess if I'm being honest, if I didn't know him, if I just passed by him on the street while he was talking to himself I'd think he was crazy. Maybe he would be one of those guys that I would make sure to keep my eye on as I walked by and I tried to walk a little faster. I probably would make an extra effort not to accidentally make eye contact.
But he's not a stranger. He's my little brother. He's the kid that would never squash ladybugs because he would always say that they were his friends and they would always be named Timmy. Every time. "This is my friend, Timmy." How could he be mad? Be crazy? He's only sick.
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Thoughts on my brother's diagnosis
Non-FictionMy little brother was recently diagnosed with schizophrenia. I have a lot of feelings about it. I thought that here was as good a place to put them as any
