How Schizophrenia Shaped My Childhood — Part One

My dad was a schizophrenic.

He believed that the C.I.A. was watching us through the mirrors and light bulbs in our house. He told grand stories of his prior successes, pure fairy tales, about how important he was to people in the government. He grew marijuana in our home, self-medicating a condition which he never admitted he had. He spent years and years in our basement, writing his own “bible” more than 2,000 pages long, taking bits and pieces of many different religions and combining them into the “perfect” religion, of which he was the pastor. And then, he went to jail for beating my mom up when I was nine.

I remember that day like it was last week. Peeking over the banister of the stairs, seeing him straddling my mom as she lay on her back, hitting her in the face. I remember holding my older brother’s hand while we and my sister raced to my grandparents house a few blocks down the street.

As I sit here writing, my heart is actually racing. I’m amazed at how much a memory from nearly 30 years ago can still affect me physiologically. This is a reminder that mental health must be taken seriously and if you know someone who needs help, you may talk to them and help them seek psychiatric services.

I remember that night, while my dad sat in a holding cell somewhere, standing next to my mom at the stove. Her face was black and blue. Her eyes were sad. She had hamburger patties in a skillet. They burned. I don’t remember saying anything to her, but I remember her turning to me and saying, “Your dad was justified in what he did.” I thought, “What does justified mean?” It wasn’t until years later that I remembered that conversation and looked up the word and was appalled at the definition.

He came home later that night, bailed out by my well-meaning, heart-torn grandparents.

Some time later, there was a trial of some sort. The details are fuzzy to me, but I remember one of my teachers in the courtroom. I was humiliated. I was sure he was going to go to school and tell every single person what my dad did. I was truly surprised when I was met with only sympathetic glances from the teachers, and not one comment from my fellow classmates.

And then, life continued on.

I hated my dad.

I wanted him to die.

I would sit in my little place outside and daydream about how I would do it–a knife? No, I was too small and wouldn’t be able to overtake him. A gun? No, we didn’t have a gun and I had no idea where to get one. Poison? Yes, poison! I just didn’t know how to do it, and when I really sat and thought about it, I was too scared. I didn’t want to go to jail. Would they put a little girl in jail? Probably.

I went to the movies with a boy not too long after the incident. Fourth grade. I made out with him. Not just an innocent kiss. I made out with him. I wanted a boy to like me, to think I was pretty, to treat me nice. Fourth grade. Oh my gosh, that’s my son’s age. I desperately longed for approval, from everyone. If I knew a teacher was disappointed in me, it tore me up. I remember my stomach being in a constant state of stress, worrying about what other people thought of me. I didn’t want them to know what went on in our home. Our home was a dark, dismal place. There were moments of light, but the darkness seemed to always welcome me when I came home. I wanted to tell someone that my dad was growing drugs in our house, and that he made me and my siblings participate in his smoking. Maybe they would take him away forever? I would get to go into foster care! But what if they let him out? He would be so mad; so, so mad. There was no way I could risk that.

It seemed that with each passing year, my hatred grew. I became a fraud. Nothing on the outside was real. I was painfully shy in elementary school, but in junior high found drama, and realized that being someone else was pretty freakin’ nice. I didn’t want to be me. At all. I was bubbly, outgoing, and dressed in crazy striped tights and funky shoes. But on the inside, I felt death. Well, anger and death.

Since my dad was “caught” for his prior offense, he started to abuse my mom in less noticeable ways…pulling her hair, choking her…gosh, again with the heart racing…seeing my mom continually berated, abused, victimized…it made me unconsciously decide that no one would ever treat me like that.

And then, when I was 15, my mom decided to take control and leave.

You can find Part Two HERE.