In my life, Cinco de Mayo is always definitively my brother Paul's birthday. We celebrated a bit last night and will do so again this weekend. And, thanks to a friend of ours, Paul is promised a day of surfing when the weather gets warmer, so the celebration will continue in a month or two.
I've been thinking a lot about Paul lately and what he means to me. His birthday gives a particular occasion to reflect upon the years going by, and the wonderful gift that time together brings. I was reminded of a post that I wrote last October, especially this part.
The reality of the thing is that I--like most family members of people with a severe persistent mental illness--often feel very isolated. People sort of share the burden and sort of understand; people try. But it is impossible to convey, even to those who know me well, what it means to remember my brother not simply as this semi-stable though unpredictable and socially awkward man, but also as the sweet baby, slightly devilish boy, troubled teen, and truly psychotic young adult. To carry that whole history with him in a way that no one else does (not even our brothers who mostly haven't seen him in years) is a gift and a burden.If I had to judge Paul only on some of those most psychotic moments--well, it would be hard to be in any sort of relationship with him. But, through the gift--unexpected, unsought, but given--of having years of closeness with Paul, everything balances out. Don't imagine some sort of perfect balance as you read that. But, somehow, having seen the psychosis, the sadness, the mania, the various forms of cognitive dysfunction, I know this is an illness. And that is a gift. Knowing that gets me through the times (so few of late, thank God) when Paul's behavior would be nearly unforgivable without that knowledge. (It is odd, because in a way this means that the very worst times are what get you through the moderately bad times.)
As I said in October, that gift is also a burden. At dinner last night, Paul and I had a couple of moments where we were sharing stories from the past. It was so clear to me how often he had completely forgotten pretty crucial stories. I realized that part of my responsibility is to remember the story and to tell it, including to Paul.
1 comment:
Beautiful post, Dana. The idea of knowing, remembering, carrying the whole story is so important. You are wise to see the gift in it, and honest to admit the burden. Thanks for sharing this experience & your thoughts about it. It helps me think of my own illness (which is very different than Paul's, but still ever-present) in a new light.
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