How Schizophrenia Shaped My Childhood — Part Two

You can read Part One of this post HERE.

So, where did I leave off? Oh, yes. When I was 15, my mom decided to leave.

I was a sophomore in high school.

One day I was in Spanish class, and I got a note from the office telling me my mom was there to talk to me. I came to the office, and my mom said, “I’m leaving your dad.” “What about me?!” I blurted, assuming she was leaving me at home with the insane person I called dad. She, of course, said I was coming with her, if I wanted. Um, YES, I wanted. I burst into tears. This was the moment I felt I had waited for my whole life. I was so happy I could hardly contain myself.

My sister and I went with her that day, and temporarily stayed at a church friend’s house. I didn’t think about it at the time, but now that I’m grown and have children of my own, I realize just how amazing it is that someone was willing to open their home and take in 3 extra people for an indefinite amount of time. Without their help, I’m not sure what my mom would have done.

After a few days, my sister and I went back to our house to gather some things. Walking into the house was like walking into a dark, damp cave. The house was thick with sadness and an impending sense of doom. We avoided my dad as much as possible and quickly collected a few things to take with us, and literally ran out as fast as we could.

Over the course of the next few weeks, my mom was able to get her things in order, and requested my dad leave so we could have the house. He complied and went to Los Angeles to stay with one of his kind sisters who has always opened her home and heart willingly to help him (and pretty much anyone else) in times of need. Honestly, the rest of high school was {mostly} uneventful. My dad stayed in L.A. and I continued on in my life. Of course, all of that hurt didn’t disappear. I had a steady boyfriend who I pretty much verbally abused. Again, I was going to make sure no one treated me the way my mom had been treated. Shortly before graduation, he broke up with me, I had a mental breakdown, tried to commit suicide and went to counseling.

It was shortly after this that I realized my faith had been completely in my boyfriend. I haven’t talked much about where my faith was at this point (I’ll be sharing my testimony in a future post), but I knew God existed. I just had kind of a distorted view of who He was. And when I was dumped by my boyfriend, I realized I had depended on him like I should have been relying on God. I still carried hatred in my heart toward my father. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw only my failures. I saw him. And it scared me.

I went off to college and started to develop a relationship with God. I realized the hatred toward my dad was only hurting me, and I let it go. Honestly, that’s what happened. I made a conscious decision that I would hold no more hate toward him. I realized he was mentally ill and that he honestly, in his own mind, was doing what he thought was right. I didn’t condone his behavior, but I accepted him for who he was and admitted to myself that I needed to forgive him.

Fast forward a couple years. Superman and I were married about a week after I turned 20 years old. You can read more about that awful first 6 months of marriage HERE.

During that time, my dad moved back to our area. He was about 5 minutes down the road from us. Definitely not where I would have picked for him to be. Just because I forgave him doesn’t mean it was healthy for him to be in my life again.

We had a limited relationship with him, as I had such a hard time setting up boundaries and any time I was around him would feel myself slinking back into my childish self, allowing him to control me with his behaviors. It wasn’t long before he was picked up by county mental health for knocking on people’s doors saying he was Jesus. It was then, finally, after 20 years, that he was finally diagnosed as Schizophrenic. While he was in the facility, he was medicated. I went to visit him and couldn’t believe that I could actually have a normal conversation with him. No delusions, no crazy thoughts of grandeur, no made-up fairy tales. Just conversation. It was amazing, and gave me a glimpse into how life could have been if only he had been diagnosed and medicated before.

After two weeks, county mental health sent him on his way with nowhere to go. He sure as heck couldn’t stay with us. So Superman and I bought him a plane ticket and sent him back down to L.A. where I only prayed his siblings would care for him. I felt like an awful daughter, shipping her dad away when he needed help. But I was still a kid, newly married, and struggling to find my footing in our marriage. I had no reserves to give to him.

About 6 months later, he died of an aneurism. Standing at a bus stop with only a large black trash bag containing all of his earthly belongings, he died. Homeless. Alone.

He had left my aunt’s house a few months prior, only leaving a note saying it was time for him to go.

And then, he had lived on the streets. I can only imagine what life was like for him those last few months, wandering around, no home, no family, only himself and his thoughts. Did he have regrets? Did he realize he should have regrets? Did he think about me? Did he miss me? In those last moments, did he wish I was there?

Of course, I’ll never know.

It took me a long time to forgive myself for putting him on that plane. But, eventually, I did.

My dad was a complicated, hurting, mentally ill man.

His instability hurt me immeasurably.

But, I wouldn’t change my childhood even if I could. Those hurts are what made me who I am today. I am a kinder, more empathetic, more understanding person because of my past.

What we do with our past is completely up to us. Do we allow it to rule our lives? Do we allow it to lord over us? Or do we take it, embrace it, and allow it to mold us into who it is we are meant to be? We can live our lives selfishly, focused on our problems and our failures. Or, we can live our lives selflessly, giving to others, serving others and knowing there is always someone worse off than we are. And they might need our help. If you’re interested in exploring ways to enhance empathy and perspective, read more about microdosing to discover potential avenues for personal growth and connection.

It’s because of my past that we now have 5 children, 4 of them saved from foster care. I wouldn’t have ever felt the urgency to help a child in need if I hadn’t been one of those children in need myself.

So, I’m thankful for my past. Yes, indeed. Thankful for who it made me, and thankful for who it will make me become. But mostly, I am thankful for a God who is bigger than all my hurts, bigger than all my troubles and who loves me so much that He meets me where I am every. single. day. 

What are you going to do with your past? Run from it? Or embrace it?