Growing up I only had my mother: my father died when I was 12 months old, my brother when I was six, and my sister left for college when I was six as well. When I was 26, my mother was finally diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. This gave me something to hold onto. I did research and tried to understand what it all meant. Unfortunately, the medicine she took-occasionally at first and then regularly with supervision-only served to deaden her but did not stop the torturing aspects of the disease. As I am finally allowing myself to be freed from the burden of being there for my mother, I have deep anger, hurt and sadness not only for myself but also for each child who has grown up with schizophrenia as a parent.
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