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Child Development
Schizophrenia and Concerned Parents
Schizophrenia made me paranoid of my parents.
Posted December 7, 2020
Today, I credit my 13 years of full recovery from schizophrenia to my parents as well as to my doctor. My parents never gave up on me when my first psychiatrist considered me to be a hopeless case.
In 2002, when I had my first psychotic break, the most obvious indication of my emerging illness was my unwillingness to have anything to do with family or most of my friends from childhood.
This unwillingness to include my family in my life was especially odd, considering the warm and loving relationship I always had with my mom and dad. During my childhood, I do not recall even one major disagreement.
My parents were my biggest fans, and passionate about helping me achieve my goals. Growing up, they carefully saved their money to fund private school for me and my brother, where the academic standards were higher. Additionally, my brother and I never encountered anyone who smoked or did drugs at the private school.
While in high school, my dad drove me to weekly violin lessons downtown at the Cleveland Institute of Music where I studied with a conservatory professor. My teacher felt that I would need a professional violin to be competitive. Once again my parents sacrificed to buy me a lovely violin, though I would sell it for a small fraction of its worth later on, after becoming mentally ill and homeless.
During high school, my goal was to attend the University of Southern California to study science. Again, my parents sacrificed financially to help me move to L.A. to make my dream come true.
When I began college at USC, a slowly began to distance myself from my family. I rarely emailed or called. In my second semester in college, my grades dropped, as I was distracted by the emerging and insidious symptoms of schizophrenia which I did not recognize as an illness. I kept my lower grades a secret from my family, despite the fact that they were paying thousands of dollars for my tuition.
When I returned home for winter break two years later, during my junior year, my parents noticed something was wrong. I wouldn’t let them into my life. At one point, I asked my parents to leave the room so I could have a private phone conversation with a friend from Los Angeles. Though my parents did not hear our conversation, they could tell I was distraught and correctly guessed that I was slandering them behind their back without cause.
My downward spiral continued until I became unable to study. Being in touch with my family reminded me of how far I had fallen, so it was easier to just stay away.
From the fall of 2002 until the spring of 2007, I was out of touch with my parents. During that time, they had no idea where I was or what I was doing, or how much money I needed. They sent checks I badly needed. Because I wanted to make a clean break from them, I ripped them up.
In 2007, when I was brought off the street and hospitalized for schizophrenia, the staff called my parents immediately. I wondered why my parents wanted to speak to an estranged daughter who ended up in a psych ward. But they did ask to speak with me, and within 24 hours, they flew from Cincinnati to L.A. to see me again.
My mom and dad spent the next year supporting and believing in me while my first five medication trials failed. They recognized and assured me that my unwillingness to speak to them for five years stemmed from a brain disorder and was not my fault. They promised me they would do everything in their power to get me better.
That same year, after I was diagnosed, I began to see a Cincinnati area counselor. She simply could not believe that my parents and I had a healthy relationship. She asked pressing questions, trying to find the real reason for our lack of communication over five years, unconvinced that a brain disorder could make me so determined to refuse all contact for such a long time. After a few sessions, I terminated my relationship with that counselor.
Today, my parents are an integral and supportive part of my life again. During COVID, I moved in with them for a few months. I enjoy spending time with them, sharing my personal and professional dreams for the future. Having a healthy relationship with the people I loved enriches my life.
As a mental health advocate, I have encountered many concerned parents whose adult children are refusing all contact with them for extended periods of time. Like me, many of these young people have left school or a job to wander aimlessly around their community. Some sleep in their cars, refusing help.
I would encourage parents of mentally ill adult children who are living through periods of estrangement to not give up. Do all you can to remain connected at some level, and if and when they end up hospitalized, if at all possible, I would recommend you go see them. Understand that their behavior is a symptom and not a choice, and learn to forgive.
Had it not been for my parents, I wonder if I would still be living outside or would have ended up in a long-term psychiatric care facility. Without their support, I may have never found a medication that enabled me to rebuild my life as I have.
My parents chose compassion, and I hope many will follow their example.
