Educational Dream

 As a child, I was exposed to schizophrenia. I watched my mother go through her thoughts and what she believed was reality. My encounters with my mother were sometimes chaotic. I remember a conversation with my mother about things I had taken an interest in. We were having a pleasant conversation until I mentioned my father. My mother became angry, raised her voice, and physically acted out her emotions. Due to not understanding what the outburst elicited, I was confused, scared, and worried. I did not respond to her behavior because I was unsure of the outcome. As it headed toward my bedroom, I remained quiet. Once inside, I lay down on my bed and cried hysterically. I can recall many similar incidents that led me directly to my place of peace.

Years passed by, and I learned how to address my mother in dialect. I knew what would cause the sudden outburst and her being upset. I taught myself to omit those specific discussions and to focus on dialogues that made my mother happy. The complications of reorganizing my speech were not the only altercations I made regarding her sickness. Before every interaction, I became nervous, and my anxiety began to rise. I would observe other children and wonder if they had planned their discussions with their parents. Did they communicate freely? Viewing the girls with their mom having a bonding exchange of words would put me in a state of sadness.

My great-grandmother, Ressy, was diagnosed with this psychotic disorder. In her time, neither medication nor treatment were available to help her cope with her illness. She was one of many who suffered and died from mental illness. Having been diagnosed with schizophrenia, the transfer from generation to generation was inevitable. My mother inherited the disorder. I was four at the time, and my brother was five. When my father chose to leave, he explained to my mother why he wanted to separate and take the children. My mother did not realize the severity of his actions until after we were taken away. At that very moment, she was institutionalized. Inside, my mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia in her twenties. The physicians prescribed her Prolixin to help cope with the loss of her children and Bengtropine to eliminate the side effects. She believed in taking her medication because she knew she would become ill. Even though the drug made my mom feel uneasy, she knew it was her only hope for mental stability. A month passed, and my mother began questioning the nurse about her release. The nurse explained repeatedly to my mother the steps she needed to take. When it was time to take her medication, she took it, and when it was time to eat, she ate more than her usual portion to gain weight. Her desire to be free from an institution was a result of being around others with the same illness. She would read the Bible continuously and pray to God for her departure. Not knowing when she would be able to walk away, my father finally visited her during her last month as a patient at St. Mary's.

The day my mother returned to civilization, she sought out her friends to console her and set up an appointment to meet with her therapist. In meeting her friends, my mom noticed a change in behavior in how they interacted with her and spoke. She looked at herself and decided to isolate herself from her childhood friends. It was complicated for her at first, realizing she could not confide in the people who were once close to her heart. Loneliness soon began to set in, and the days became longer. It took every ounce of her to seek out the family she once knew. My mother's sisters helped her during the time of her abandonment. Every day after she got out of work, they would meet with her and bond.

My mother listened for a long time about having to take her meds and staying consistent with her doses. I believe the constant fear of repercussions and knowing the outcome if she did choose not to comply with the doctor terrified her. The doctor assigned to my mother explained to her the consequences of non-compliance. Immediately, he would call St. Mary's to have them come and grab my mother to place her inside the institution. If my mother were to reenter the institution, she would have to suffer through the entire process she previously endured until she decided the medication was right for her. I asked my mother if not taking the drug was a choice. When my mom spoke, I heard sadness in her voice as she answered. She was sick and always will be.

 I dedicated my studies to psychology. I want to help those who suffer from mental disorders like my mother.