This story originally appeared on July 27, 2022 in The Mountaineer. Reprinted with permission.
Personally Speaking: Having a family member with mental illness
By Marty Knight
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be mentally ill? Or to be a family member of someone
who suffers from the effects of mental illness? Every family is different but this is my story.
My youngest sister, Cindy, and I grew up with a father who would probably be diagnosed as bipolar today. Fifty years ago, we didn’t know what to call it. He totaled his car driving under the influence. He yelled at us one minute and slept for hours the next. None of us ever knew what kind of mood we would find him in when we walked in the door.
As we grew up, I was vigilant observing the nuances of his highly changeable behavior. I felt it necessary to protect my sister from his sudden rages and frightening switches. I did the best I could.
My mother was a wonderful mom but was clueless as to how to handle my father’s sudden tirades. She never told anyone or asked for help. We were not to tell anyone since my father was an attorney and it would have been bad for business. Our secret life continued.
My sister, Cindy, came home one day from her part time job and related how she could hear what those around her were thinking. Literally. I told her to quit messing with me and assumed she was kidding.
One night we agreed to meet for pizza. By this time, she was college age and I was married with a new baby. As we sat down to order she said, “I don’t feel well. I feel weird.” Thinking she had the flu, I drove her home.
After multiple unanswered calls the next morning I drove to her apartment and found her door standing wide open. I called to her while I cautiously walked in. No answer. She came out of hiding and asked, “what are you doing here? “She then walked over to a wall, faced it, and would not respond to anyone or anything. That’s when Cindy became catatonic and would never be the same again.
The police eventually transported her to a hospital. I cried and cried as I signed papers to admit her, the first of many hospitalizations for schizophrenia.
Through the years I would find her hiding in backrooms of stores, buying a car she had no money for, then driving it 100 mph because “voices in her head told her she must.” She rented an apartment she didn’t need for $3000, prepaid and non-refundable.
Eventually, she would try medicines of all kinds but insurance wouldn’t cover them because it was a “mental” problem not a physical disorder.
I became a police officer and it became easier to keep tabs on her via radio dispatches.
Cindy had always been artistic and in the midst of all her personal chaos, created 176 handmade cards for nursing home residents at Christmas. She took a taxi to deliver them herself and was quite pleased with the response! She baked cookies for her neighbors. She wrote many poems that spoke of her longing “to be normal.” I still read them.
Cindy would be happy if she knew others like her could get help early on either with medicines, counseling, or assisted living. She’d say, “It’s OK to talk about it now.” And it is.