by Mike McCarthy
I think it’s safe to say that all children with mentally ill parents feel like they grow up different and well that’s because…. it’s true. We face many challenges that others don’t face. We have to play parent, take on added responsibilities and deal with the stress of constant uncertainty. We grow up too fast. We are adults trapped in tiny bodies. I always wanted to be an adult when I was a kid, I don’t know why but I did. When I finally became an adult it didn’t seem that important anymore. Maybe that’s because all those years I had been an adult but didn’t know it.
My mom tried to balance all the madness by spoiling me. I never asked her, but I always thought that was the reason. I never had to have a part time job, never had to do work around the house, never really had to do anything I didn’t want to. I was her special boy. She and my dad to a lesser degree treated me like I was special and in many ways I was. The chances of my birth had to be very small. My parents first met before my dad developed schizophrenia, my dad broke up with her and married his first wife. He got sick, his wife left him and my mom returned, oh and he jumped off a building, breaking his back. They got married a few years later and then had me. The chances of all that happening have to be pretty low. So maybe I am special but I also feel an outcast.
I remember days when my dad would storm into my room and question me about what the kids at school said about him. “Do they call me crazy?” he said. “Ummm, no they don’t dad, they don’t know you have a mental illness,” I was always secretly worried they would find out since we both went to the same high school but they never did, I don’t think so anyways. I had such a hard time relating to children my age, they all seemed so much like…kids. They were of course and they had childlike innocence, something that I never had. It’s the price you pay when you grow up in unusual circumstances. I was also a shy child, I hate that word, I prefer introvert, so I didn’t say much to others and kept to myself. I was much more involved with my own thoughts and feelings, so that put me even more on the outside looking in. As I moved to my teenage years I never rebelled like others did, I always say I rebelled against rebelling. I never did drugs or got drunk, in fact I didn’t have my first alcoholic drink until I was 22. That was all kids stuff to me, just a way to mask their pain of their teenage years. Typical teenage angst. I was too good for that, I knew better, I knew it wouldn’t solve anybody's problems, including mine. I guess you could say that was a good thing since I didn’t engage in risky behavior but I also missed out, I was never “one of them” I was just a bit on the outside. Deep family secrets don’t help either. I remember days when my dad would be screaming at me and seconds later I would be outside or going to school, acting like nothing happened and even smiling and making jokes.
I became really good at pretending like nothing was wrong. I had a good teacher though; my mom was the same way. She was always smiling, happy and making others feel better. But I wasn’t her because that was just the way she was. I was isolated from the rest of my peers; I had no real companions that I could share my story with, my pain, feelings and isolation. That’s not to say I didn’t have friends I had some in high school, good friends too. Even more in college but I always held back, I was never a whole person. Never sharing the story about who I really was. Maybe that’s why I drifted towards the arts; I could recreate myself every time I performed which was pretty easy for me. Since I did it every day. When others my age were out drinking or going to parties I was thinking about deep issues of the human condition, why I am here? What does it all mean? Is this all meaningless? My brain in many ways developed a lot quicker in those areas but lacked in social terms. I was awkward and anxious and still am. I have terrible anxiety and suffer from depression. I’m sure it’s mixture of my own personality traits and my environment growing up.
So this mixture of being special and different has complicated my life. I never really dated. I didn’t want to bring someone home to all my madness and really, what did I have in common with them anyways? So, what does your dad do? “ummmm, well, he talks to himself all day.” I never blamed my dad, in fact I never yelled back at him when he yelled at me, I knew it was his illness and his chronic back pain, I hoped anyways, but I knew deep down society wouldn’t so accepting. As I have found out over the last few months working in the field: some in society are not. The majority of people still have no idea what schizophrenia is or what it does to someone. They still look at you like your weird, not sick. They don’t seem to have the compassion they would have for a cancer patient, they seem to be too bothered to care. This brings me back to my mom. She cared for my dad for nearly 30 years, took him back after a broken mind and body and loved him unconditionally when she received at times, nothing in return. This again was something I partially adopted from my mother,never to her degree but to some level and something that set me apart again. Society and even my own family lacked my mothers compassion, sacrifice and open-mindedness.
I have always felt torn between two worlds the normal vs the madness. I no doubt have my dad’s brain and hope I have my mom’s heart. I now spend most of my time absorbed in the madness. I work in madness, volunteer and write about the madness. In many ways that’s where I think I belong on the outside looking in. Never really accepted by the rest of them, damaged and broken like my father, hoping to restore order to my life that was taken from me so long ago. I get along great with the guys I work with probably because I have a lot in common with them. I know their loneliness and isolation and the pain that comes with never having a whole life, never being a whole person. I never really grieved my mothers death, I skipped that step I think. I went directly into action, reshaping my life around a new cause. I never grieved the loss of my dad and yes, it’s a loss, ask any child. I accepted it for what it was, that he could never really help me with my life. What I do grieve I think is the loss of a “normal life” the life that I always kind of wanted. A life I never got.
Now I’m here at 25 basically an orphan starting my life over again. Once again setting myself apart from my peers, without parents and working in a field that few understand. My old interests like acting, hockey and movies no longer give me the same feelings they used too. Maybe it’s still all new, maybe it’s too soon, maybe it won’t come back at all. It’s closing in on a year since my mom has died, since everything changed. I think I have made a difference so far, raising money, got praise at work and from others saying that we know the stigma and silence too, but when I go home, at night when I’m most alive.I still feel emptiness, just a bit on the outside. So I push harder like my mom always did, always something more to accomplish, more to do. I know I should relax more but it doesn’t seem right. I deal with my issues with therapy, meds and meditation, but I feel like it’s a war out there. Maybe right now I’m not looking for peace. Maybe one day I will be at peace with all this madness and can be whole for once. Maybe one day I can be the perfect union between the normal(mom) and the mad(dad) world.
I think it’s safe to say that all children with mentally ill parents feel like they grow up different and well that’s because…. it’s true. We face many challenges that others don’t face. We have to play parent, take on added responsibilities and deal with the stress of constant uncertainty. We grow up too fast. We are adults trapped in tiny bodies. I always wanted to be an adult when I was a kid, I don’t know why but I did. When I finally became an adult it didn’t seem that important anymore. Maybe that’s because all those years I had been an adult but didn’t know it.
My mom tried to balance all the madness by spoiling me. I never asked her, but I always thought that was the reason. I never had to have a part time job, never had to do work around the house, never really had to do anything I didn’t want to. I was her special boy. She and my dad to a lesser degree treated me like I was special and in many ways I was. The chances of my birth had to be very small. My parents first met before my dad developed schizophrenia, my dad broke up with her and married his first wife. He got sick, his wife left him and my mom returned, oh and he jumped off a building, breaking his back. They got married a few years later and then had me. The chances of all that happening have to be pretty low. So maybe I am special but I also feel an outcast.
I remember days when my dad would storm into my room and question me about what the kids at school said about him. “Do they call me crazy?” he said. “Ummm, no they don’t dad, they don’t know you have a mental illness,” I was always secretly worried they would find out since we both went to the same high school but they never did, I don’t think so anyways. I had such a hard time relating to children my age, they all seemed so much like…kids. They were of course and they had childlike innocence, something that I never had. It’s the price you pay when you grow up in unusual circumstances. I was also a shy child, I hate that word, I prefer introvert, so I didn’t say much to others and kept to myself. I was much more involved with my own thoughts and feelings, so that put me even more on the outside looking in. As I moved to my teenage years I never rebelled like others did, I always say I rebelled against rebelling. I never did drugs or got drunk, in fact I didn’t have my first alcoholic drink until I was 22. That was all kids stuff to me, just a way to mask their pain of their teenage years. Typical teenage angst. I was too good for that, I knew better, I knew it wouldn’t solve anybody's problems, including mine. I guess you could say that was a good thing since I didn’t engage in risky behavior but I also missed out, I was never “one of them” I was just a bit on the outside. Deep family secrets don’t help either. I remember days when my dad would be screaming at me and seconds later I would be outside or going to school, acting like nothing happened and even smiling and making jokes.
I became really good at pretending like nothing was wrong. I had a good teacher though; my mom was the same way. She was always smiling, happy and making others feel better. But I wasn’t her because that was just the way she was. I was isolated from the rest of my peers; I had no real companions that I could share my story with, my pain, feelings and isolation. That’s not to say I didn’t have friends I had some in high school, good friends too. Even more in college but I always held back, I was never a whole person. Never sharing the story about who I really was. Maybe that’s why I drifted towards the arts; I could recreate myself every time I performed which was pretty easy for me. Since I did it every day. When others my age were out drinking or going to parties I was thinking about deep issues of the human condition, why I am here? What does it all mean? Is this all meaningless? My brain in many ways developed a lot quicker in those areas but lacked in social terms. I was awkward and anxious and still am. I have terrible anxiety and suffer from depression. I’m sure it’s mixture of my own personality traits and my environment growing up.
So this mixture of being special and different has complicated my life. I never really dated. I didn’t want to bring someone home to all my madness and really, what did I have in common with them anyways? So, what does your dad do? “ummmm, well, he talks to himself all day.” I never blamed my dad, in fact I never yelled back at him when he yelled at me, I knew it was his illness and his chronic back pain, I hoped anyways, but I knew deep down society wouldn’t so accepting. As I have found out over the last few months working in the field: some in society are not. The majority of people still have no idea what schizophrenia is or what it does to someone. They still look at you like your weird, not sick. They don’t seem to have the compassion they would have for a cancer patient, they seem to be too bothered to care. This brings me back to my mom. She cared for my dad for nearly 30 years, took him back after a broken mind and body and loved him unconditionally when she received at times, nothing in return. This again was something I partially adopted from my mother,never to her degree but to some level and something that set me apart again. Society and even my own family lacked my mothers compassion, sacrifice and open-mindedness.
I have always felt torn between two worlds the normal vs the madness. I no doubt have my dad’s brain and hope I have my mom’s heart. I now spend most of my time absorbed in the madness. I work in madness, volunteer and write about the madness. In many ways that’s where I think I belong on the outside looking in. Never really accepted by the rest of them, damaged and broken like my father, hoping to restore order to my life that was taken from me so long ago. I get along great with the guys I work with probably because I have a lot in common with them. I know their loneliness and isolation and the pain that comes with never having a whole life, never being a whole person. I never really grieved my mothers death, I skipped that step I think. I went directly into action, reshaping my life around a new cause. I never grieved the loss of my dad and yes, it’s a loss, ask any child. I accepted it for what it was, that he could never really help me with my life. What I do grieve I think is the loss of a “normal life” the life that I always kind of wanted. A life I never got.
Now I’m here at 25 basically an orphan starting my life over again. Once again setting myself apart from my peers, without parents and working in a field that few understand. My old interests like acting, hockey and movies no longer give me the same feelings they used too. Maybe it’s still all new, maybe it’s too soon, maybe it won’t come back at all. It’s closing in on a year since my mom has died, since everything changed. I think I have made a difference so far, raising money, got praise at work and from others saying that we know the stigma and silence too, but when I go home, at night when I’m most alive.I still feel emptiness, just a bit on the outside. So I push harder like my mom always did, always something more to accomplish, more to do. I know I should relax more but it doesn’t seem right. I deal with my issues with therapy, meds and meditation, but I feel like it’s a war out there. Maybe right now I’m not looking for peace. Maybe one day I will be at peace with all this madness and can be whole for once. Maybe one day I can be the perfect union between the normal(mom) and the mad(dad) world.
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