As someone with a family member currently fighting a mental illness, I would like to share a personal journal entry for World Mental Health Day.

1/21/16

Today is the first time I’ll see you in over a year and a half. Our last visit was a trip to Purgatory Chasm for an afternoon hike on a sunny summer day. I was unsure of what to say or how to act. What do you say to your older estranged brother who tried to kill himself? Our conversation started off stiff and stilted and seemingly unnatural pauses followed. But time in nature is conducive to long stretches of silence. In the silence we found our voices and spoke our truth.

Today there is no warm sun. I am only greeted by a raw wind as I make my way from the hospital parking lot to the psychiatric ward. I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I have no fear and no anxiety. I only have a deep sense of “I will” I’ll figure out where I’m going. I’ll figure out where to wait. I’ll figure out what to say. I will…

I pile in the elevator with several hospital staff members. We share a surprisingly long ride to the fifth floor and I can’t help but notice that their affect matches the worn and dark physical state of the building- they’ve seen too much, they’ve given too much.

As I wait for visiting hours to start a carpenter working on a nearby project makes pleasant chit chat. I appreciate his kindness and do my best to reciprocate, but I focus on my feet. I’m preparing myself for what waits behind that locked door. I let my imagination run wild and pull clips from movies to create the worst version of what you’ll be. I will be prepared

When I do look up, I see eyes staring through a thin strip of clear glass running horizontally across the door. Frosted glass above and below. I know those sweet eyes. It’s you. You signal “one minute” and disappear from view. It doesn’t matter if you tell them I’m here. You’re powerless. They’ll get me when it’s time.

It’s the weight of your hug that surprises me most. I fear I’ll buckle if it lasts much longer. Without any prompting you share your story. You’re jumbled and confused, but we both focus harder. As you talk I think about ways I can make it all better.

You continue on and rage fills my body as I wonder who fed you these lies and how they became your truth? But when I really listen I notice how sick you are. And when I stare hard into your eyes I realize you’re already gone and next time you’ll succeed. It suddenly becomes clear why I’m here. Why I came home this time and not the three times before. I’m here to say goodbye. And I will.

“I remember the night you came home from the Navy” I say at the first chance you give me. I must have been about eight years old. I had recently been granted the privilege and task of starting mom’s car. It was a standard and I knew to make sure the e brake was on, make sure the car was in neutral, clutch in, turn key. Well, after Mom and Dad told me you were coming home and we were going right this minute to pick you up, I grabbed my coat and ran to start the car. The happiness I felt must have clouded my brain because I just pushed in the clutch and turned the key. The car lurched forward and almost hit mom who was walking to the driver’s side before it stalled.
“I almost ran over my mother because I was so excited about you being home!” I say with a bit of extra emphasis and a chuckle hoping to make you laugh. It works. God, it’s good to hear your laugh.
I tell you about a picture that exist from that night. I’m walking through the front door dragging your duffel bag which was bigger than me. In the picture I am simply beaming. I tell you that this is how I still feel about you.

I want you to have this memory. I want you to know it’s the one I will keep. While I’ll visit you each day, some days twice, to send you love and soak you in; I know now that I’ve done what I came here to do.

Goodbye, big brother. I love you. I will miss you.

I am thankful that my brother is still here and battling daily. I have friends who are not so fortunate. We have to do better. Not sure where to start? Here’s a first step NAMIWalks