Sisters

My brother, who gave himself many bizarre names, lived in a world of paranoid schizophrenia. His personality fluctuated between extroverted and introverted, depending on his medication. He often felt persecuted and bugged, which eventually led him to persecute and harm someone himself.

It was the middle of the night when the chaos broke out. I had just gone to bed to get a few hours’ sleep when suddenly the phone rang. My older brother had gone missing again. This time he had not only hurt someone, but was on the run from the police. The incident was surreal, like something out of a film: he was convinced he was being chased by a Russian mafia gang. In his madness, he smashed a car window, injured a young man and shouted that he was going to kill everyone. In reality, he had attacked a couple of driving license novices who happened to be parked nearby.

The police were already involved, but I couldn't wait. I was in contact with three different police stations, hoping to find out where he was. At the same time, I searched the area, looking for the places I knew he would go if he was hiding. Woods, old buildings, the area around the railway tracks. All I could think about was finding him before he threw himself in front of a train. My brother was also the father of a little girl - three at the time - which made his situation even more tragic.

The hours dragged on and I knew I was putting myself in danger. But I didn't care. I was the one in the family who felt responsible - since I was a teenager. My parents had long since resigned themselves. My mum said she couldn't take it anymore, and my dad closed his eyes and pretended it wasn't happening. Of course, I still updated them on the situation from time to time. I reassured them that whatever it was would end soon - and tried to maintain control as best I could.

Around seven o'clock in the morning, my phone rang. It was my brother. He sounded exhausted and scared, but he was talking to me. That in itself was a good sign. He was riding his bike right next to the railway tracks. I tried to stay calm and told him about his little daughter and how she still needed him. Something I said made him change his mind. He decided to turn himself in and rode his bike to the family doctor.

The police finally came to get him. Two officers, unarmed and sympathetic. They told me later how admirable they thought what I had done was. It was the first time that night that I was able to let go. I finally cried. I could finally breathe.

But that was only the beginning. My brother was stabilised and later transferred to a forensic unit. For me, it felt like a relief - he was finally in a place where he could no longer harm us or himself. At the same time, I was wracked with guilt. Had I abandoned him by leaving him in the care of others? 

The stigma that followed was overwhelming. Newspapers reported the incident, but the articles were full of errors: wrong age, wrong place of residence, completely distorted stories. I was almost grateful for it, because it protected my parents from the truth. There were also comments circulating on social media, which I deleted as soon as I could to save us any more embarrassment.

That night, the longest of my life, was just one of many challenges. But it also showed me something important: I can fight, even when I'm scared. And even in the darkest moments, there is hope.