My Sister: Doctor, Schizophrenic—Gone But Still Here
This Story Will Break Your Heart. But Some Truths Are Too Important to Stay Silent.
Twins have an unusual bond that most people can’t appreciate.
We were conceived together.
We shared a womb.
Shared every birthday party.
Every birthday cake.
Shared the same school until we graduated from university.
If I’m being perfectly real with you, I think I later struggled with codependency because I’ve been in a codependent relationship with another female companion from birth.
And this is part of why I generally like women.
Why most of my close friends are women.
When we were 13, she almost died from electrocution.
I made a brief mention of this in my book.
Our house was always falling apart in some way or other.
My father would have you think we were poor.
Poverty is a state of mind.
Although his apartments were always in good condition, he was less diligent about maintaining our house.
Frankly, my childhood home says more about my father’s self-esteem than anything else.
How you treat your things says a lot about you.
There was a known issue with the electricity in the kitchen.
I was vaguely aware of it.
But I wasn’t paying close attention.
The wiring in our childhood home might seem like something you’d find in the Old Wild West by American standards.
A lethal 220 Volts—and we’d been getting electrocuted in that house for years for one reason or another. Flicking on a light switch… Turning on the water heater… Plugging something in…
This was part of why I wasn’t paying attention — my normal.
There was something wrong with our microwave. Somehow, when we plugged it in, the fridge would deliver unpredictable electric shocks. The temporary solution was to leave it unplugged.
Somehow, I remember my father blaming me for leaving it plugged in. Sounds exactly like me. Sounds exactly like him…
Fuck you for even trying to blame me for this.
Imagine you’re 13, and your sorry excuse for a father is trying to make you feel responsible for almost killing your sister. But NO BLAME was assigned for keeping your children in an unsafe environment.
After school, I found a way to sneak into a nearby hotel to play tennis.
A couples resort — mostly filled with newlyweds from England or the US. It was usually pretty lame.
That day, I was all alone practicing against a wall.
I can hear a familiar car horn.
That hazy feeling like something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.
There was a bone-chilling uneasiness.
This horn keeps blasting, but it’s all an unsettling mystery.
People are always making a ruckus in St. Lucia.
Eventually, the car lets up, and the noise goes away.
Not long after that, I pack up all my things and head home.
It was usually a quiet walk home.
A time to ruminate about all the things I didn’t like about my life.
Or whatever girl I liked.
Usually, I walked about a mile home in the evening. It was dusk, and the road was lit with a dim orange glow.
Crickets and other night critters were coming out.
Headlights were coming on all at once.
No street lamps.
The road stretches for about a mile along the runway of one of St. Lucia’s two airports.
Usually, it’s a busy time at that airport.
Lots of flights coming in. You could feel the exhaust from the crafts as you walk past them.
And the roar of the engine rotors is unnatural amidst this lazy beach environment. Complete with coconut trees sparkling water and gorgeous white sand.
That night, my father pulled over next to me on the shoulder and picked me up.
My sister was in the hospital.
First of all…
The medical system down there…
St. Lucian hospitals are always so filled with plight and misery.
All of the medical equipment looked like something from yesteryear.
Whenever Americans or Canadians spoke about their healthcare systems, they sounded like something out of Star Trek compared to what we had to work with.
When someone had a life-threatening condition that required advanced medical equipment or a specialist… they would have to get helicoptered over to Martinique.
That’s how you know shit was serious.
The flight was about 15 minutes — 20 miles away.
It always baffled me that in desperate times like these, people would have to fly to a whole other country to get the medical treatment they needed.
Even a minor illness can take a long time to be examined in the hospital—8 hours or more.
Misdiagnosis was very common.
Like my mother…
Who went 8 years thinking she had “Gaul stones,” … she didn’t find out that it was cancer until stage 4.
I know more people who have died due to medical malpractice than I can count. It’s one of those sad facts of life down there.
Yet the doctors were among the most arrogant people I’ve ever seen.
The God-complexes were legend.
By the time your doctor’s ready to see you, you’re either dead or you feel better.
The place was way more unsanitary than any hospital ought to be.
My friend said that when he was born, he contracted leptospirosis—from rats.
It’s all so medieval and horrific.
Which is why I have tried and mostly succeeded at avoiding its horrors.
So, unfortunately for you, I can’t give you all of the gory details.
That’s not entirely true.
My ex-wife worked at the morgue the summer I met her.
It’s a massive red flag, but we’re pressing on…
She could have made a show—101 Ways To Die in St. Lucia.
I’ll tell you just one of them.
I’m pretty sure this guy gets murdered for gang violence.
His girlfriend of many years showed up to ID his body at the morgue.
His body is under a sheet.
She walks up to the body with tears and sobs.
She pulls the sheet back so she can take one last good look at his penis.
As I remember this story, she didn’t look at any other part of his body — not even his face.
She stares at his member for a full 10 seconds.
Then she shakes her head with stern regret.
Then, she covers the body and slowly walks away.
I’ll be sure to get around to telling you all of the fascinating ways my compatriots have died.
It’s a worthwhile story.
But we’re at the hospital…
And my sister’s arm is in a blue sling.
She was at home after school, grabbed onto the fridge, and got a 220-volt shock.
The force of the electricity kept her hand locked to the door, and the current roiled through her body.
This was life or death.
She screamed out for help.
Help never came.
And in that moment—she made a choice.
She wrenched herself free.
Dislocated her own shoulder.
13 years old.
The doctors were well surprised her heart didn’t stop.
My sister said the whole world turned black.
And then she came back to consciousness.
This whole event was so traumatic for her on so many levels.
My sister never forgot the ways my father failed to keep her safe.
I remember her pointing out that there were ZERO consequences for the adult who left her there to die.
Yes—there was an adult in the house when this happened.
When my sister called out for help…
She BEGGED her to switch off the power…
And she was standing right there.
Totally within reach.
She ran away.
She was going to let my sister fry.
One theory as to why my sister survived is that the cat and dog were close by because they sensed danger.
The idea is that they both selflessly took on some of the currents to keep her alive.
It’s far-fetched, but I think it’s true.
I know my dog. I’ve seen him protect us in ways that my father never has. Indeed, even back then, I was smart enough to note that the dog was the most loved member of the house—by a lot.
And we know this has to be at least partially true because the cat’s tail was poofed up the way cats’ tails do from electricity. This was my sister’s first-hand account.
Animals don’t lie, don’t betray, don’t gaslight. They’re pure. And in the most critical moment, they—not the adults—may have been the only real guardians in that house.
Beyond the electricity itself, the many ways my father failed to protect his daughter and show her that she mattered to him broke her.
It’s just a theory.
But it’s not unfounded.
Something happened to her in her youth that later destroyed her beyond repair.
That much is irrefutable.
Maybe it’s because she got into smoking pot when she was in her late teens.
I was staunchly against it at the time.
And I didn’t like her doing it either.
How things change.
These days, I say she’s crazy because she grew up in a crazy situation.
I sometimes find answers I don’t want to see whenever I look for answers.
Like…
When I read somewhere that there was a study on schizophrenia patients.
And the group that got better was the people who could see the truth about their parents and childhood.
The ones who rejected their abusive parent were the ones who got better.
I have to live with the knowledge that my father was worse than probably anyone can imagine.
Here’s a man constantly begging me to rescue him and my sister…
The man who destroyed everything wants ME to clean it up.
How am I supposed to tell him she must do the one thing he’d never allow?
The effects, to me, are plain to see.
Let’s not forget that he’s the reason WHY I became The Chauffeur.
I’m just as broken as she is, and that’s not a coincidence.
I’m so broken.
I’ve spent many years thinking about ending it all; sometimes, I worry that I might. This is what is so fucked — I have the palpable feeling that I could have been a mental case just like her.
I may be someday. It takes a lot of work to keep me looking and feeling normal. I spend a small fortune on therapy. And medication.
I have structured my whole life around being well. And that can get disrupted easily.
But, of course, everyone is eager to point the finger elsewhere.
My mother’s grandfather had spent some time in an institution. I don’t know from what. It may very well be schizophrenia.
I have lost so much sleep worrying about this impossible problem.
If I were to be honest with you…
I might have never gotten fired by Tony Robbins were it not for this issue…
It’s cost me because it clouded my judgment and stressed me so profoundly. I would not have taken the same risks were it not for me feeling this palpable distress for my sister.
This painfully slow-moving tragedy.
Sometimes, my sister is akin to a poltergeist.
Alone in the house, day in… day out… for decades.
Completely lost in her world.
Just her and her friends.
Every so often her REAL friends ask me what’s wrong.
Where is my sister?
They haven’t heard from her in 10 years.
I never quite know what to say. I guess now I do.
She’s still here… but she’s gone
Dead, but not buried.
Did you know that 50% of people with schizophrenia have a delusion that’s based on religion?
So they may believe they’re Jesus or that God or the Devil is talking to them directly. That’s HALF of all people with schizophrenia.
People with schizophrenia tend to smoke a lot.
I think it’s a coping strategy.
They’re ten times more likely to commit suicide.
Most of them don’t make it to old age.
Nobody in my family is equipped to handle this problem.
Everyone is eager to find a way to hand this problem over to me, but they can’t, and they’re very salty about it.
My family has no idea what loyalty looks like.
When my sister returned from medical school, she stayed locked in her bedroom for a year before my father ever inquired about her well-being.
My ex-wife couldn’t make it to 10 am without me wondering why she hadn’t started work yet.
Nobody can quite agree on what’s wrong with her. Several diagnoses are going around.
This is more evidence her family has failed her miserably.
One relative keeps telling me, “She’ll get better when she decides to.”
Which I eventually realized was a profoundly cruel thing to say.
It’s not much different than saying people can decide to cure themselves from cancer.
The family would love nothing more than to have me “solve” the problem.
This fantasy that my sister will get better is a deeply vexing matter.
It says they’re in denial… Ignorant… Uninterested… Disloyal…
They see how I have thrived in America.
They see my career and my lifestyle…
I’ve been aggressively trying to heal for decades.
Self-growth has been my hobby since I was 18. I’ve been reading books on how to better myself for 20 years. Books that nobody else ever wanted to read, mind you.
I’ve been diligent about it.
I’ve sought the most potent tools…
And I’ve lived in a better environment.
I’ve made better choices.
There’s no denying that I’m a profoundly resourceful person.
But I’m not THAT resourceful.
I’m just not.
Still, I started reading books about schizophrenia. That was very helpful, and more than any of my family members are willing to do for my sister.
Except my father, who read a few books at my recommendation. He deserves a modicum of credit.
I downloaded about 100 books about schizophrenia and uploaded all of them to ChatGPT.
I discovered a non-profit in Rochester called NAMI - National Alliance on Mental Illness.
They held support groups for families with mental illness.
In this secret society, you find desperate people.
These people’s problems are beyond what some people can imagine.
Having a family member with schizophrenia, for some, comes down to managing an ongoing catastrophe.
I started attending these support groups on Zoom.
Always trying to encourage other family members to join. My father and brother both came once, but my father immediately broke down into what seemed to be some highly performative grief. My brother was mortified. Neither showed up again.
But I liked going.
Certainly not because it was pleasant.
It WAS NOT.
These are people who are worrying themselves into an early grave.
Some are profoundly jaded and cynical because they’ve seen suffering that most people could never imagine.
Many of them have had to hospitalize their adult children forcibly.
There was always a range of functionality among each family member’s person with mental illness.
Some kept their family prisoner in their own house for fear they might hurt themselves.
Some had been so lost in their loved one’s struggles they hadn’t taken a vacation in years.
Some patients could hold down a menial job — bagging groceries or something like that.
Many could not.
I got answers at these meetings.
A schizophrenic’s life can be profoundly dark and sad.
They must watch everybody advance in life while they stay stuck forever.
The team leaders were seasoned veterans. They had been through it all…
Quickly, I learned that with the proper preparation, you can save yourself a world of suffering.
Most of what I learned was less about fixing the other person and more about accepting the reality of the situation.
Eventually, I enrolled in a 3-month course for family members with mental illness. It was 3 hours per week.
It was a lot.
And, it was not pleasant.
But we all had essentially the same problem.
And we were all figuring out how to come to terms with that.
We were learning how to stay calm during a crisis.
We were learning how to hold on to our sanity no matter what’s happening with other people.
Empathy from the group uplifted each person.
When my sister had her subsequent hospitalization, I saved myself a lot of suffering by being prepared.
My role in all of it — being in the US thousands of miles away — was to guide my relatives through the process and help them process their complex emotions.
I sat on the phone with my father to help him. He felt very guilty about almost every part of this mess, including having to go to the police to arrest my sister.
When he told me that happened, my inner child cried.
That kid part of me could have never fathomed a father having his child — my sister — arrested.
It seemed like one of the most heinous things a father could do.
But surprisingly, he did his best and mostly did the right thing. It would have been nice if he had a more delicate touch…
But in this case, my position is always that whatever it takes to keep her medicated is what we’re going to do. That includes hospitalization.
I was vastly more emotionally prepared for this. I might have slipped into a deep depression had I not spent those 3 hours per week processing the gravity of her situation ahead of time.
Hospitalizations are always traumatic.
This is the reality of schizophrenia for many.
And the institutions in St. Lucia were barbaric.
Growing up, we would pass Golden Hope Asylum every day — then on its last legs. Take note—Asylum in the name. Yikes. This was a house of horrors. Thankfully shut down today. Still doesn’t give me much faith about her treatment options.
I have this notion that the meds in St. Lucia are less effective. Just judging on their complete inability to provide me with the most basic medication for ADHD.
I forget what conspiracy my sister buys into, but she’s deeply distrustful of my father, and she believes that she’s being hospitalized because he is so nefarious. There’s a seed of truth in the delusion.
I can do this by taking time to care for myself, even while advocating for the needs of another.
If I’m going to be perfectly honest, I’ve come a long way.
I felt crippling shame about the whole thing at one point.
Certainly not something to advertise.
But having thought about it for some time, enabling secrecy is a mistake.
As one team leader put it…
When the neighbors find out a family member has cancer, you get bundts, sympathy cards, and casseroles.
But nobody ever does shit for the family with the mental case — partly because we all keep the struggle to ourselves.
Beyond that, I feel compelled to tell her story for my sake.
For one reason or another, I’ve found that even after rejecting someone’s toxic behavior, or even my dysfunctional behavior… it may take years for me to realize… but wait… I’m still keeping this person’s shameful secret for them, and that’s been eating away at me forever.
Know what I mean?
I deserve the right to tell her story for my sake, too.
I’m suffering inside all of this silence.
Hefty burden.
The people who want to reject me for having a crazy sister…
Fuck every last one of them.
Better hope your child doesn’t come down with something.
My sister was a normal person until her mid-20s.
I sometimes think about people who have been able to see their whole lives but who have instantly gone blind.
Or the amputees who must struggle for the rest of their lives, who couldn’t have imagined being in that position before tragedy.
Everyone must drink from the cup of suffering and devastation at some point or another.
Those arrogant bastards are no different.
I prefer it when my enemies aren’t secretly pretending to be my friends.
I’m pretty fond of some of my enemies.
And, if I’m keeping it 100% honest with you, I have NOT seen my sister at her worst.
In my case, I try to limit how much I let myself suffer.
And I generally keep a healthy distance from my relatives anyway.
For whatever reason, I have never been around at her worst.
At best, I’ve only seen inferior-quality videos after the fact.
It gets horrific.
She goes through phases of catatonia.
Like right now.
I’ve never actually seen it myself.
She won’t even eat.
She’s rail thin.
Her last hospitalization was spurred after being unwell at the bank. The security guards, my father, and the police got involved.
What a despicably low place to arrive as a father.
Even though she is delusional I know that it crushed both of their soles to be in that position.
I don’t fully understand what it’s like when she’s in the throes of a full-on attack.
I know that at her worst, she’s probably at the Exorcist level of horror. Even the doctors seemed to be alarmed at the severity.
It must have been traumatic for all involved.
It’s taken me decades to learn how to maintain healthy boundaries with my family members.
Now that I know how to protect myself adequately, I certainly don’t feel ashamed.
I get that privilege. In a sense, I’ve earned it.
I consciously aimed for it.
Misery always loves company.
It’s notoriously hard getting people with schizophrenia to take their meds.
There are harsh side effects.
And most of them suffer from anosognosia — that is, they don’t believe themselves to be sick. It’s a fixed belief that you can’t talk them out of, no matter how hard you try.
It would be no less futile than if you tried to convince me that I’m female.
Ain’t going to happen.
It is so challenging for me to see others struggle to comprehend the gravity of my sister’s condition.
They still, after 15 years, try to convince her that she’s sick or that she needs to take her meds.
Such a profound lack of understanding leaves me feeling grim.
I will mention that my sister made it through med school on a full scholarship in Taiwan.
And she was miserable over there.
She was aware that she had schizophrenia at that time, and the school had found out, too.
The secrecy in my family is truly infuriating.
I heard a rumor that she smashed every light in her dorm.
Not corroborated.
They were deeply policed.
They had curfews.
My sister complained that there was some strange system for disposing toilet paper in a waste bin instead of throwing it away. I’m not sure if this is true or if it was her disease talking.
My ex-wife...
She was as bigoted as they came about, my sister.
She refused to interact with her under any circumstances.
“We can’t take care of someone with schizophrenia.” —Ex-wife.
It’s part of why she pushed me away from them.
Everyone’s always so progressive, open-minded, and free-spirited until they’re not.
To my ex, my sister was a leper—untouchable, unacceptable. But apparently, dementia and sociopathy were just fine.
You want to talk about things I will NEVER tolerate again.
The hypocrisy.
Ironically, my ex’s family was riddled with autism.
My sister believes that my father is a murderer — and that he will soon come to justice.
And you want to know what? Knowing the man the way I do…
For a while there…
I believed her.
Until next time,
Anton
Dancer, Writer, Buddhist