Sisters

 I remember that my brother together with his friends had experimented for some time with angel's trumpets, a dangerous hallucinogen, before he developed his first episode with hallucinations and paranoia. Since then, he had several psychotic episodes when he also became aggressive. But he also had long periods, when he was calm. I will focus here on three dramatic episodes, where I was involved.

First, I have to say that our family could not cope with his illness. My mother became more and more withdrawn. I once heard her say to a neighbour: "The doctors end up blaming the mothers anyway. I don't want to hear it anymore." My father? He pretended the problem didn't exist. 'It doesn't happen here,' he said. 'You only see it on TV.' So, it came that I felt responsible and tried to help, whenever help was needed, especially during the first years of his disease. 

Once, when my brother was going through a psychotic phase, he suddenly appeared in front of our house. He had a machete in his hand. My partner at the time was there and was about to leave the house, but my brother was standing in the doorway staring at him. The tension was palpable, like a thunderstorm that could break out any moment. I acted instinctively. I sat down on my partner's lap, held him tight and spoke softly to my brother: "You are not safe here," I said, "please leave now". After a few minutes he did leave. My heart was pounding, but I knew the danger wasn't over.

I called the police. But when I explained what had happened, I was given an evasive answer: "If he tries to break into the house again, please contact us again". It was clear that I was on my own.

Another time, the situation escalated even more dramatically. My brother was delusional again and after a dispute with our other brother Max in front of our house where I was present tried to overrun Max with a car. I knew he would never do anything to me. So, without thinking, I stood in front of the car and forced him to stop. And it ended well. But even then, we knew the police wouldn't be of much help. We didn't even call them because nobody had been hurt. That was the logic we lived with.

Those moments of self-administered justice left their mark. Not only on me, but on the whole family. We were torn between the desire to protect my brother and the fear of his actions.

But the darkest moments were not the violent ones, but the desperate ones. I remember visiting him once at his home. He had just taken some medication and was calm, almost apathetic. But I sensed something was wrong.

He had prepared a rope to take his own life. He was crying, screaming, saying he couldn't take it anymore. I didn't know what to do. If I had called the police, he would have hated me. Instead, I promised him we would find a way if he just gave me the rope. He let me take it. I went home and cried all night. Part of me thought at the time, 'Maybe he should just do it, then we'll all be at peace.' That thought still haunts me, but I know it came from sheer exhaustion.

My brother spent many years caught between anger, madness and periods of clarity. I was exhausted and it took me a long time to find support - far too long. He is better now. He has calmed down and I still visit him from time to time and he enjoys my visits. It's hard to say how I got through it all. Maybe because I had to. There was no other way.