From the outside looking in, I grew up in a perfect family. My parents were hard working and successful, we lived in an affluent community and went to a top school district. My parents did a phenomenal job keeping hardships away from my sisters and I, so we were blissfully unaware of any struggles they endured.
I distinctly remember the day my parents told us about my uncle who died by suicide when my dad was 15 years old. My Uncle Steve was a family-kept secret, and the information we learned about him began and ended with the circumstances surrounding his death. After that day, I never heard my dad talk about his brother again. Occasionally, my Uncle Steve was brought up in a passing conversation by my grandparents, but there were always glances across the dinner table between the adults when his name was said. I knew two things about my Uncle Steve - 1. He shot himself in the head in a cornfield 2. We did not talk about it.
There were plenty of stories I made up in my head about my Uncle Steve. In my mind, he was a drug-addicted, high-school drop out with life-long mental health issues who couldn't find his way in life. The Uncle Steve I made up was full of rage and delusions, and was definitely not like anyone else in our family.
Last year, my whole world was flipped upside down. My dad, who has always been the most cool, calm and collected person I know, began to experience an acute mental health crisis. Looking back I can call it that, but at the time we did not know what was going on. While visiting from Georgia, we noticed his demeanor changed over the course of his stay. He went from being relaxed and easy-going to being crippled with anxiety. He had severe tremors, memory lapses, and insomnia. The nurse in me began a list of differentials - dementia, Parkinson's Disease, or any number of neurodegenerative diseases.
Once he returned home, my stepmom began what would become a 5-month journey filled with scans, images, labs, specialists, and unanswered questions. Appointment after appointment cleared my dad of all physical findings that could cause his behavior change and tremors, but his delusions were getting stronger. Our nights often came with midnight phone calls from him, telling us he was going to be arrested. Our days were spent reassuring my dad that my stepmom wasn't having an affair with a famous actor or that his clean clothes in the closet really were clean. He lost interest in doing anything he used to enjoy. Working out, playing music, and reading were things that used to occupy his days, but now he could barely leave his house.
My sisters and I watched helplessly over FaceTime every evening. Our phone calls used to be filled with laughter while my kids showed their Grandpa the latest racetrack they built or danced and jumped to their newest favorite song. Now, the show-and-tell was still coming, but with nothing but blank stares and silence on the receiving end. He was often sitting in dark rooms, even though it was daytime and my stepmom was in the other room cooking dinner. One night we called an emergency suicide line because we were so worried. The team went to his house and evaluated him, but cleared him of being a danger to himself or others.
My dad was slipping away from me right before my eyes, and no one could tell me why or how to stop it.
Finally, after a particularly challenging night, my stepmom drove my dad to a mental health emergency room. He was admitted to an acute mental health facility where they ultimately diagnosed him with severe depression, anxiety and psychosis. After a few weeks he moved to an assisted living center for continued care.
I wish I could say the story ends with my dad being cured of his mental health, but I can't. My dad, at the age of 64, is still living in an assisted living home due to his severe depression and executive dysfunction. While the delusions have subsided with medication and therapy, he is still not the same person he was before, and every day feels further and further away from getting him back.
This experience with mental health has broken my family. My stepmom is lonely and grieving the wonderful husband she had. My sisters and I call him during our scheduled time each day to minimize anxiety from calling out of the pre-discussed window. Our fun-loving, easy-going dad is never on the other end of the phone calls.
I have learned a lot about mental health over the last year. I learned that my Uncle Steve was not the challenging child I had always imagined. In fact, he was valedictorian of his class, had started classes at a private college, and was marrying the love of his life when he committed suicide. His mental health disorder onset was no different than my dads - quick, out of no where, and without warning. Most importantly, what I have experienced over the last year has highlighted the importance of talking about mental health. It has forced me to have conversations with my kids and recognize that the topic of mental health doesn't have to be the way that it was in my family growing up.
Experiencing this first-hand with my dad forced me to see why stigmatizing mental health disorders with labels and bias only causes more harm. My dad held onto decades of grief that he never worked through after losing his brother because discussing it was not an option. By discussing mental health disorders and teaching my kids to be kind, my hope is that my family can be one drop in an ocean of people who are advocating to change the stigma associated with mental health disorders.