I had my first psychotic episode in the summer of 1990. It was the scariest thing I have ever experienced.
I can still remember what happened:
After my freshman year in college, I returned to my parents' home in Lafayette, California, for the summer. It was the first time I had tried to look for work, and I was burning to prove myself. I am an adult now, I thought, and a smart guy, and I deserve a good job. Typical thoughts for a naive 18-year old? Possibly, but the outcome was not.
I searched retail centers throughout my community, but none of them could offer a position. This lack of success had left me pensive, and I was still reeling from my recent breakup with my first girlfriend. I began to doubt my own validity, to try to be someone else, someone happy.
I was lying in bed trying to sleep, thoughts whirling, feeling the ever-present tension in my face. Then, suddenly, all the tension disappeared from the right half of my head. It was like something had snapped. It felt like half of my mind was gone–the emotions, the associations I normally felt there felt unrecognizable–crazy.
I couldn't get to sleep that night–or any of the next three. I needed to be my whole self again, at any cost. I ran my mind through exercises, thinking of people and pursuits that I had loved, trying to "build back my missing half." I wonder how Amanda is? I wonder if I can kick a soccer ball over that tree branch? I pursued these thoughts until things started to get dim. I wandered the streets so as not to settle on any external perception, so that the world could not "make me someone else." Exhausted and at wit's end, on the third day I called my high school friend Lynn. So I wouldn't be alone (my family was out of the country) she let me try to sleep at her mom's house.
By next morning, Lynn and her mom knew my issue was too big for them to handle. I wasn't making any sense and would not let them talk sense into me. They took me to the psychiatric hospital in Walnut Creek. "Now, Brandon, you've had a psychotic break--" The diagnosis was too much for me to accept. But what could I do? I resigned to trying medication.
It was very hard for my parents and sister too. As it happened, it fell to them to make sure I took the meds I couldn't stand for months! But, then and in the years that followed, they were there with me all through the worst of it and beyond. They supported me with patience, love, and all the understanding they could. I can still remember my hearing my father's words, which marked a turning point in my will to go on:
"There's a lot of love coming from here, Brandon."
My Dad hasn't given up on me. I can't give up either.
I am forever grateful to my father, mother, and sister.
It's taken me nineteen years for the fact that I have schizophrenia to fully settle in, and for me to–finally–be OK with it. Today, I am stable, married to my sweetheart Nancy, and living a life I love.
I am a part of something bigger, something my parents started in 1995, inspired by our shared experience: The International Mental Health Research Organization.
In staging the first Music Festival for Mental Health fourteen years ago, my Mom and Dad worked with Chef Charlie Trotter, Conductor Richard Williams, and several wonderful Napa Valley wineries to put on a great afternoon event in our vineyard. Since then generous donors have helped our family raise over $94 million for brain research. I organize the scientific symposium that kicks off our Music Festival every year, and the science is fascinating. And, I got to develop this website, that you are reading right now.
Do you have a story or two about your experiences with brain disease? Why not come to the Festival and share them? Every year we meet more people who come to the Festival who want to talk about how they cope with brain disease, either in themselves or their families. Please come--we'd love to meet you.
Sincerely,
Brandon Staglin
