From Jesus Reyes💌
For anyone who’s family has ever been affected by mental health.
I’ve never experienced what it’s like to grieve the death of someone I felt close to. There have been deaths in my life and my family, but it would be disingenuous to say I’ve been close enough to any one of them to truly experience the sadness of loss. I have, however, experienced a different kind of grief. One that I’m reluctant to definitively classify as grief because this person hasn’t passed away.
The person I’m describing is my older brother. To give a brief backstory before describing the series of events, my brother was the coolest person I knew growing up. He was a great athlete, he was a scholar, a ladies’ man. Think Ferris Bueller but more athletic, smarter, and Latino; that was my brother. I looked up to him and wanted to be just like him for as long as I can remember. He’s the first person in my life that I considered a social butterfly. He was funny and charismatic. I tried to emulate his confidence, the way he joked, and tried to fit into his clothes when he wasn’t home. I speak in the past tense when describing him because none of these things are true today.
Things first started changing about twelve years ago; just after my 15th birthday. My brother had his first manic episode. He spoke erratically, he was paranoid, and nonsensical in the way he explained his thoughts and actions. It was horrifying. I’d never witnessed a mental episode except in TV shows and movies. Mental health awareness wasn’t as discussed or advocated for as it is today, especially not in the Latino community. I was sure that this was a one-time deal and maybe he just smoked some shitty weed. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. Things over the next few years only got worse. The episodes became more violent, more confusing, and eventually led to regular hospitalizations and arrests. My family was distraught and confused; we hadn’t any idea how to handle a situation like this and even less capacity to discuss solutions. We became well acquainted with anxiety, and we lived in a perpetual state of fight or flight. Each waking moment was now a guessing game on if the next phone call would be from a hospital or a police station. He couldn’t operate in public settings without supervision for years and had outbursts anywhere he went. I found myself looking after him whenever we went out together. I was now an older brother. For years, I was in (1) denial. In denial that this was my brother. I thought his actions were an act, and I found myself grilling him and asking him questions about why he can’t just be himself. His response would never be direct, and he would brush off the question or talk about something completely unrelated, and this (2) angered me beyond belief. I lashed out at him regularly. I tried to find answers, so I ran my own version of tests; asking him if he remembers certain moments from our lives. He always did, but he recounted them without emotion. He did everything without emotion. I can’t remember how long I kept these kinds of tests up, but it felt like an eternity. (3) I was convinced that if I did them long enough, he would snap out of this state of psychosis and be himself again. His responses remained the same: indifferent, detached, and absent-minded. I blamed myself for not noticing signs of change sooner. Me, who takes great pride in my attention to detail, wasn’t able to notice such glaringly obvious changes in my own brother. This made me withdraw from my family entirely. I spent months and months at my best friend’s house to avoid witnessing him in his condition that (4) I felt powerless to change. I stopped going to school and didn’t go back until years later. I couldn’t understand why I was so unmotivated and just believed I was taking a break. When my family asked me why, I never had a good reason. Eventually, they stopped asking. I gave up believing he was putting on a front and (5) accepted the reality. The person who I looked up to most was no more.
For a long time, I resented my brother. I blamed him for the hardship we experienced. I blamed him for the dynamic shift in our hierarchy of siblinghood. Most of all, I blamed him for no longer being the person I remembered. In a strange way, I felt that he was someone that hijacked my brother’s body and his memories and was now living out the rest of his life for him. I know now that I was experiencing grief. As I’m now well into my adulthood, I no longer resent him. I understand that his condition and whatever may have caused it is what changed him. I understand that my anger towards him was misdirected and that the blame was nobody’s to bear. My story is one of many, and it’s taught me about the realities of mental struggles. It’s allowed me to see the world with an understanding heart. It’s made me conscious of my own mental health and grateful to be in a condition that allows me to now be present for my family and the people that I love. Mental health struggles are very real, and I would urge anyone reading this to take care of their own and to check on the people in your life.
About the Author:
Jesus Reyes is a writer from Brooklyn, New York, whose work is shaped by faith, travel, and a lifelong curiosity about people and culture. Raised by immigrant parents, he grew up surrounded by the richness and diversity of the city, an experience that continues to influence how he sees the world. After writing stories and poems throughout childhood, he found his way back to the page through personal growth and self-discovery. Through reflective essays, Jesus explores identity, belief, and the experiences that quietly transform us along the way.
Substack ID: Jesus Reyes
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The quote that say " Of all the ways to loose a person,death is the kindest", just made so much sense now, so sorry about your brother
this relates all to well,, so beautifully written<3