Change a Mind, Save a Life.

The implications of our influence on the people in our lives is more far reaching than we comprehend. My brother Josh was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was 19; I will never forget the exact question he asked me as we were walking back to our apartment in South Miami, "Do you ever hear voices? Well actually it's more like a growl." That moment in my life was one of those times when the pit of my stomach sank. I had always protected my brother and I felt completely helpless and lost. As his big sister, I felt guilty that he was the one with the predisposition for mental illness. I spent years questioning what was so different about us that he had to go through the experience and I didn't. I blamed my mother and the years of "ups and downs" we experienced while her bipolar disorder went untreated. I blamed my mother's upbringing for her illness, and eventually decided that there was no one specific individual to blame, nor did it matter. What was important was that my brother get the assistance he needed to recover and live a happy, productive life.

Josh began to play the guitar at the age of 15, and was completely self taught. I remember playing him Little Miss Can't Be Wrong by The Spin Doctors and he played it back by ear after hearing it once. My parents gave him a 1972 Gibson SG for his 16th birthday and he took that guitar with him everywhere. My brother was writing music before he even perfected playing chords. He started a punk band in Gardiner, Maine and eventually dropped out of high school. I was in college at the University of Miami when Josh and his girlfriend decided to move into an apartment with me and that was when he told me about his symptoms. His girlfriend had told me about the nightmares he was having and how he was avoiding sleep, but I didn't know the extent of it until Josh felt comfortable talking to me about what he was experiencing. Josh eventually moved back to Maine and then relocated to Boston where he was involved in more than one band. He was receiving Social Security Disability as a resident of Maine so he traveled to Maine once a month to meet with his Psychiatrist and discuss his medications. He never received any type of counseling.

While Josh was living in Boston he was introduced to cocaine and began to use the drug to cope with his symptoms. In February 2002, I received a phone call from Josh's girlfriend, "Have you heard from Josh?" This was the first time I had received a phone call like this and my first reaction was to believe he was missing. My brother had his first psychotic "break" and despite being the most docile individual I knew, had committed an act of violence. When his girlfriend described to me what happened and how she was worried he was going to take his own life, the image in my mind was of my brother as his innocent two-year old self, when he was unscathed by life experiences and unaffected by schizophrenia.

I knew where to find Josh; he couldn't stay in Boston, and my mother was a short bus trip away in Maine. I called my mother's house and could hear Josh in the background. After talking to him and realizing he was not going to turn himself in, and would spend the rest of his life running away, I made the hardest decision of my life. I called the local police department and described what happened. They were unable to find any warrants for his arrest in Boston, but located one in Maine for an unpaid fine. The day after Josh was arrested, two warrants were issued and he was extradited to Suffolk County Jail in downtown Boston. As I expected, my brother was incredibly angry with me, but I thought he would end up dead or on the run for the rest of his life if he didn't face the justice system. Either way, I would lose him. Josh eventually came to terms with my decision and I was able to ask him some questions about that night. I asked him what he intended to do, "I was gonna kill her and then myself." I lived with that answer for months before I had a deeper understanding. My mother told me Josh's girlfriend had an abortion a week before his break, and Josh had already told me he wasn't taking his medication at the time. From my brother's untreated perspective, he and his girlfriend were both murderers. This wasn't justification for what he did, but it certainly was a valid explanation. The court system disagreed and he was sentenced to 18 months in prison. Josh was committed to a forensic hospital and left out the details of his stay at Bridgewater State Hospital. From letters I received while he was there, the emphasis was not on rehabilitation. Josh was eventually paroled and ordered to a halfway house at the price of $190.00 a week, not very affordable for a convicted felon on disability.

Josh eventually re-established himself in Boston and began playing in a band again. His band was called "Let it Ride" a term used when someone throws everything they have left into a bet to win a poker game. Josh saw this as his last chance. On February 24th, 2004, while I was stationed on a Navy ship in Norfolk, Virginia, I called my brother's cell phone. His girlfriend answered his phone, "Is Josh there?" She replied, "Josh's gone." "Where'd he go?" "Josh is dead." Seven years have passed since that morning and typing this elicits as much pain as hearing those words did. I had always protected my brother and felt I lost part of my own purpose that day. Josh was the only one who witnessed how my mother's "ups and downs" had directly affected me. Within seconds of believing I had no purpose, I realized that I had an even greater purpose to discover. My son was two, and this was the kind of pain I never wanted him or anyone elses family member to experience. It was at Josh's funeral I found out what happened the night he died. After his band's practice, Josh had purchased heroin instead of cocaine. He stopped breathing in his sleep that night and never woke up. I was given his band's demo album at his funeral, titled "Death by Misadventure." Josh wrote the title track as if he knew his own fate. Josh only shared his diagnosis of schizophrenia with a few select individuals because he didn't want people to define him by the expected symptoms of his illness.

Josh's death gave me an even greater purpose; if I can prevent anyone from experiencing a similar pain, my brother will have impacted lives as his legacy. I knew when I returned to school to finish my bachelor's degree, I would major in psychology, not only to learn but also to teach through my brother's experience with his illness. When it was mentioned in class that symptoms of schizophrenia often include hallucinations such as hearing voices, I shared with my class that in my brother's case, it was a growl. This was important because text book symptoms don't describe everyone's experience.

Despite wishing I could have "saved" my brother, I have discovered an even greater purpose in my own life through what he experienced. Everyone with mental illness is someones brother, sister, mother, father, or friend and is loved for who they are, not what others expect them to be because of their illness. The false expectations that ensue manifest as stigma which was a barrier to my brother's successful recovery. You can change a mind and save a life by educating people with your own story.