DIANA writes:

I’m sorry to bother you with so many e-mails so suddenly, but the post about suffering and how people write to you really touched me. Here is my story. I leave a lot out, of course.

My oldest brother is 12 years older than I am. He’s schizophrenic. I can hardly remember him as a normal young man, but I do have some memories. For most of my life, he’s been a terrible burden and a shame. He is subject to fits of rage and violence. (I had a lot of therapy sessions devoted to dealing with this. They all boiled down to: forget about him and save yourself.)

But the bedrock of his personality is an overwhelming sweetness. He’s actually the sweetest person in my family. I’m not just an addled family member who can’t see the bad in her brother. It’s true. He’s a sweetheart. He couldn’t believe that 9/11 was caused by terrorists. I called him afterwards to calm him down. He was fine. “No one would do that on purpose!” he said to me.

As a result of his treatment (don’t get me started, but he was institutionalized at a time when we knew a lot less about treatment of schizophrenics than we do now), he’s a human wreck. It’s difficult for him to carry on a conversation. He’s in an adult home in a rotten part of town now. I call him now and again. Not enough. Our middle brother, with whom I have a patchy relationship, has assumed most of the responsibility for his care. He really doesn’t require much care. He’s settled into his existence, which consists of taking meds, watching TV, and reading comic books. He plays chess with himself, and re-reads all the old books he’s shlepped with him. It’s like he’s stuck in a well-worn groove.

Anyway, yesterday I called him at 8 p.m., meds time, and I told him I loved him. He said, “Those are the best words. I  love you.”  His words sunk into me: those are the best words.  So I said it again: “I love you.”  And again, he said to me, “I love you.”

But there’s more, Laura. Here it is.

As I write this, I realize something that didn’t occur to me when he said those words. When he said, “Those are the best words,” he sounded completely sane! Normally his voice is very clotted and occluded with insanity and medication. But when he said those words, he enunciated them with completely clear diction.  He sounded sane, and all grown up. All the horror, the cobwebs, the interference, the medication, and the madness, were swept away from him as he told me he loved me.

To tell you the truth Laura, I don’t know if I do love him. But it felt very good  to say the words, and I think I do. Inside he’s still my adored older brother, no matter what. I asked him to draw me pictures. He used to be a pretty good artist. I told him I’d send him an envelope with my address on it, so that he could send them to me.

Laura writes:

You spoke the truth. When you said those words of love, you too were experiencing sanity and light.

You love your brother. You do. Love is synchrony, not just feeling, and you have grown older together even with the large age difference between you. In mysterious and imperceptible ways, you have known each other. That movement through time, and that secret knowledge, is love.

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