It is amazing what we inherit from our parents. All the crap that gets past down to us.
Some people are lucky and only end up with boxes of books and photos.
My siblings and I? Not so lucky.
We get mental illnesses.
On Tuesday night, my brother went off the deep end. There is really no other way to describe it.
We got home and he was fine.
I was up doing a clinical assignment for school at around midnight and, I don't know what happened.
He was talking strangely and, later, he had no idea if he was alive or dead. His pupils were huge, blood pressure 180/120 with pulse of 136...I wasn't able to count respiration rate but he was breathing fast and sweating profusely.
He kept asking about me, mom and my younger brother, saying that he needed to wake us up so that we don't die in the fire (there was no fire).
I woke mom up and we sat with him for a little while until he began to talk to an ex girlfriend he thought was in the room and screaming that the dogs were trying to attack him after I had already put them outside. I excused myself and called 911.
The cops didn't enter the neighborhood with the lights on but had a spot light scanning the houses to find us. When the light hit the window, he screamed and told me not to unlock the door. I said that it was okay, that I was just going outside for a cigarette. I don't smoke. He kept saying that I wouldn't come back inside, that I would die out there.
I don't want to bored you with anymore details aside from saying it took about an hour of negotiation with cops and paramedics for him to come outside and sit on the stretcher.
But he will be okay. We all will.