Violent Silence

It was his third time at my house that day. Each time was more aggressive, angrier and more violent. I was beginning to fear him but more so fear for him. We were not strangers. I knew his patterns and techniques of manipulations, but he was bound to come across someone else. Someone with a fuse as short as his. I knew what he wanted, and I knew who he wanted, but my patience was wearing thin as he continued to bang on the door with my six month old trying to sleep. My husband wasn’t home so reluctantly I went downstairs to my mother’s basement apartment to tell her “He’s out here again.” We paused for a brief moment to see who would fold first. Would she finally come up and give him the ten dollars he was asking for, or would I return to the door, for the third time empty handed.

Without my husband home we felt at a loss for security so my mother caved in to his demands , gathered some dollars she had around the room and went upstairs. The yelling match began almost immediately. Round one: Roger. Coming out of the gate with a slew of cuss words at our mother, yelling about having to wait so long for someone to open the door on this cold January day, begging for food and money for food. Round two. My mother. Yelling we told him he was not supposed to be at our home. He needed to check back into the hospital. That comment usually ends the rounds and the angry brother 2.0 surfaces. He stormed off of the porch with his tornado of obscenities and threats to us and my daughter because he “don’t need to go to no hospital.” He ripped up the flower beds from my garden, he threw the solar lights in the walkway across the yard. He walked to my mother’s car and tried to rip her license plate from the rear of her car. Eventually he left, but the evidence of his “visit” was everywhere.

I didn’t have words for my mother as we closed the door and the curtains to hide ourselves from the reality that had become our family. I was disgusted at his condition, but even more at the fact that the system allowed it to get this bad. They defended him because he’s an “adult” and he makes his own decisions. Even though those decisions will one day get him hurt. He does not take his medication, and every day gets worse than before. We’ve been battling his schizophrenia for nine years now, but for the last three years, we’ve been losing, badly.

After this particular incident, I decided I was done talking to my mother about it. She used to make excuses for him but now he was becoming a problem that they couldn’t handle. I grabbed one of my unused notebooks from my desk drawer. I’m used to journaling, but I felt a strong urge to do something different. I grabbed the small black book and a pen and went and sat on the patio. I took a few long deep breaths and replayed the scenarios of the day. As the smoke escaped my mouth I caught a glimpse of something glistening in the snow a few feet away. I didn’t have to move because it blew around the yard towards me. Once I deciphered what it was and where it had come from I began writing feverishly. I remember how anecdotal notes were taken to help provide students with the support they needed, so that’s what I did. I took my little black book and began writing every detail I could remember about the past interactions with my brother.

I started with the events of that day, destroying my garden, causing damage to my mother’s car. I continued with the events of earlier that week- breaking all of the windows out of our gymnastics center, breaking the windshield wipers from my father’s car, knocking over my garbage cans behind the house. When I couldn’t remember exact dates, I used months. When I couldn’t remember the month, I used the year. I had successfully documented the detrimental decline of my brother’s mind.

I had to have been sitting outside for over an hour when my husband came frantically looking for me. He was visibly upset he wasn’t around for the confrontation. I didn’t know if it was because he wanted to protect us or get revenge himself. I followed him into the house and sat with my daughter for a while. I hated the feeling of unease and helplessness that followed my brother’s visits. I was constantly paranoid and looking out of the window to see if he returned and was vandalizing my car next. Every noise I heard outside, I wondered if it was him preparing to throw rocks into my windows. I constantly thought about how I would pay for the damage. My teacher’s salary was enough to pay for bills, not accidents, or on purpose-ments.

A few days passed before our next run in with my brother. He was caught on camera at our gymnastic center breaking the windows again. This time he had broken all the way into the center. He threw equipment around, broke the windows out of the office, and urinated on some of the mats. I knew that his mind worked differently now, but I knew a part of his target was because he blamed this center for our parents not caring for him the way they cared for these kids. He would often make remarks toward our mother as if she were still married to our father, even though he has been remarried for eighteen years. He’d ask our mom to choose between the two of them. He exposed himself to her a number of times, and he was completely disgusted by our father. I couldn’t help but to remember the days we all used to work together at the facility. Even when his mental health was on the decline, he was still called in to help clean up on days there were no classes. To have gone from that to this was just unbearable.

I pulled my book out to record the details and reactions of what happened. I felt the need to add affirmations and messages to him within the details of the destruction he created. I wanted him to know that he was still a person, he still mattered, and we still loved him. We only wanted him to get help. He used to check himself into a hospital when he felt himself getting too out of control, but now he only goes to escape the cold. When it’s warmer he wanders the streets getting into confrontations with people he doesn’t know.

I planned to show him my book, because I knew he may not have a working memory of everything that happened. My hope was that it would be something he could read and realize what had happened and then be convinced that he needed help. He’d take the pills, and eventually everything would be ok. I never got the chance. Early that morning we were awakened by a different kind of knock at the door. My brother had been killed-shot dead and left in the street. It was most likely by a stranger, someone who didn’t know his history, or his mental state. We were left with our guilt and regret. I wanted to do something for my spirit rather than mourn. I knew my book was the key to making a real change, for other people to see how real mental health issues are and how the silence can destroy a family.

I worked for close to a year to try and get someone to take my book seriously. A lot of publishers were interested and thought the idea was “fresh” and “unique,” but they were afraid of the backlash to come with tackling such a taboo issue in our community. When I got frustrated and tired of the no’s, I’d just flip to a random page in the little black book and remember my brother. Remember how society initially failed him by having him “age out” of my mother’s insurance. From then he was on his own with his healthcare and making decisions for himself. We should have pursued a guardianship or aid for his best interest. We should have done more to protect him from himself, so I refused to give up.

About a week before Christmas I received a call that a small publishing company was interested in meeting with me, and we could talk about potential plans for my book. I eventually signed a book deal with them and earned $20,000 upfront and became a national speaker on mental health and family advocacy. I am proud of being able to give a voice to those who may be too afraid or embarrassed to speak. Our experience ended with the loss of my brother’s life, but through me his story will live on.