by Miranda P. Kincaid, Your Black World
Growing up, my life was complex. I was the child of an interracial couple who lived in Mississippi. My father, who was disabled, stayed at home and did most of the things that a stay at home mom would do, like cooking, cleaning, helping with homework, and taking me to my numerous extracurricular activities. My mother, on the other hand, worked outside of the home. She was the one who took care of the bills and for the most part, was the breadwinner in the home. Growing up, I never thought twice that this type of gender role reversal was strange. After all, my parents provided everything my brother and I could possibly want and need. All was well in my world, until my already complex life turned upside down forever.
I didn’t know that my father had been diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia. When I was younger, my parents would argue, which was normal for married people to do, but my father was more violent with his actions. I remember one time my parents had gotten into this huge argument and he chased her around the car, while he carried a huge stick. After he had calmed down, he didn’t even know that it had even taken place. I was mortified at the entire experience, but since no one talked about my dad and his peculiar ways, I kept these feelings buried within me.
Over the years, my dad’s illness had gotten worse. He would constantly pace the house and look out of the blinds. He would say things like, “I know they’re trying to kill me”, and “Look at them, they’re laughing because they want me dead.” I would not even have friends over because I’d never know what type of “mood”, as my mother called dad’s outburst, he would be in. Shame and embarrassment could not begin to describe how I felt. Sometimes I wish that my parents would divorce or that my dad would just die.
My father’s illness began to affect me in other ways. For example, I would try extra hard to do things in a “normal” way to make extra certain that none of my dad’s “craziness” would somehow show through me. I tried extra hard to be perfect in everything I did. It’s ironic that in order to escape all things insane, I actually almost drove myself to it while trying to live a sane life. I would pray every night that I would not catch schizophrenia and that those voices my dad had would leave him too.
With therapy and medication, my dad’s symptoms got better. He began to hear the voices less and less and the paranoia subsided as well. I began to connect with my father and understood that he was a person with an illness and not as an ill person. I learned that living with someone with a mental illness was no different than living with someone who had cancer or some other health problem. The only difference is our perception of people with illnesses.
I lost my father in October of 2007 to renal failure. As a typical “Daddy’s Girl”, I find it very hard sometimes, especially around the holidays and particularly on Father’s Day. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. A person’s actions do not define who one is as a person and I now realize that my dad’s illness had nothing to do with me.
It took me a long time to realize that everyone is one breaking point away from needing the assistance of a mental health professional. In our community, it’s the unspoken acknowledgement that a person is “touched” or “not quite right”. We tend to ignore it instead of understand it. I hope my story inspires others, who may be living with someone with a mental illness, to understand that their struggle is not your shame.
