info &
resources

Love’s All That Makes Sense: A Mother Daughter Memoir

by Sakeenah and Anika Francis
Excerpt contributed by Bridgeross Communications Publishing

Growing up with a mother with schizophrenia is not particularly easy and it is something that is not written about very much.

Sakeenah Francis developed schizophrenia as a young mother just starting out on a career but the disease impacted her badly as it did her daughter, Anika.

Thanks to the involvement of Anika’s grandparents and aunts and uncles, she survived her childhood to go on to graduate from Ivy League schools and begin a career.

Her mother struggled and eventually began to improve to the point where she and Anika have become close and co-wrote this book together as part of their healing process. The book is based on a series of letters between mother and daughter.

Chapter 6: A Walking Zombie

“Dear Anika,

Unlike the first time I was hospitalized, I was actually relieved to be in the hospital after I was separated from you because I was off the streets. It’s rough being homeless and that was surely no kind of life for you.

I could still hear your screams in the back of my mind as I sat in the doctor’s office waiting to be admitted. I had no idea where you were but I figured you were someplace warm and getting food, which made me feel a little better but not much. Before I was taken to my floor, I had to empty my pockets, not that there was anything in them. I had nothing; not even two pennies to rub together. All my belongings were in my suitcase, which was back at the hotel.

I protested when the doctor prescribed medicine, but I agreed to take it figuring that’s what you’re supposed to do in a mental hospital. The nurse showed me the two places I’d spend most of my time – my room and the day room. There wasn’t much to do except watch television in the day room or listen to music in the room with a record player. No, I did not say a CD or cassette player, but a record player. I tried to write a letter to my uncle so someone would know where I was, but the medicine made my hand droop and my eyes blur so I couldn’t even write.

Initially I did what I was told. I took the medicine and kept to myself. The nurses were the main ones we interacted with. Their job was to hand out the medicine and handle most of the daily duties. If you needed to talk to someone, you went to a nurse. I mentioned to a nurse how drowsy my medicine was making me and she arranged for me to speak to a psychiatrist. I repeated to him how tired and dizzy the medicine made me and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I’ll never forget his mean response, “That’s what we have for you to take and you’ll be taking it for the rest of your life.”

Patients place a lot of value on what doctors say. Early in the diagnosis of a severe mental illness, the things psychiatrists say can make the difference between a person feeling hopeful or hopeless about their illness.

He made me feel hopeless.

The medicine I was given made me confused, drowsy and lethargic and I didn’t want to feel like that for the rest of my life. At a time when I was trying to understand and accept my illness, it would have helped if a doctor had explained my mental illness in everyday terms. When a person has a disease like diabetes, for instance, a doctor will sit down with them and explain what the disease is, how it impacts the body, and what the treatment plan is. I have seen countless psychiatrists over the years and none of them ever explained that schizophrenia is a brain disorder, and what the symptoms of my illness or my treatment options were.

Knowing more about the medicine I was being prescribed, what the long-term goals for me were and the possible drug side effects might have impressed upon me the need to stay on my medicine.

I may be a person with schizophrenia, but I’m still a person with feelings. I appreciate psychiatrists who speak to me like I’m a human being and express some semblance of care and concern. There was no compassion or care from this psychiatrist. I thought to myself, “Here I am in a strange place without a penny to my name and I don’t even know where my daughter is. I have to get out of here.” I fought back in my own way by refusing to take my medicine.

When we lined up twice a day for it, I’d go to the water fountain and spit it out. I did this religiously twice a day for three days until a nurse caught me. She protested so loudly the entire staff knew. After that, I went back to taking my medicine as prescribed. Though I was dazed and heavily drugged after that, I remember quite clearly when a patient threw a chair through the glass window of the nursing station because he thought a nurse was hurting his friend.

After two weeks, I was transferred to the Pathway House, an unlocked building designated for higher functioning patients. In my new facility, I had the freedom to come and go as I pleased. There was a separate building for meals while another building housed a small factory where patients worked for money. Each week the patients in the house would meet with the staff to be assigned our chores like vacuuming, dusting and cleaning the kitchen area where we prepared snacks. I was the secretary during the meetings so I’d write all our assignments down. I didn’t mind the chores because it gave me something to do besides sleep.

Tired of feeling dizzy and sluggish, I stopped taking my medicine again. In the medication line, I’d slide the pills under my tongue. When I got out the line, I’d spit the pills in my hand and go to the bathroom and flush them down the toilet.

I really enjoyed the Pathway House after I stopped taking my medicine. The grounds on the facility were absolutely beautiful. I’d get books from the library and read underneath a tree on the big lawn in front of the house. I’d also read down by the lake on the grounds. It was so peaceful and serene there. Once a month, a local lodge sponsored Bingo Night that included candy, money, and prizes. Occasionally, the institution hosted a big cookout which I enjoyed because I got to eat barbeque and see patients who were usually kept in seclusion.

Food is a big deal when you’re in a mental institution and meals are the highlight of the day. We’d stand in a long line waiting to eat. For some reason I craved milk and fruit at mealtime. I’d trade my pie or cake to other patients for their milk and fruit. Of course, I was eating a lot more than just fruit as they also had potatoes twice a day. Consequently, I gained twenty pounds in a month, but I still looked good.

I didn’t have any money but I liked to go to the café to read because I enjoyed the environment. I met a disabled African-American man who was a former patient at the hospital. He had a lot of money, or so it seemed to me since I was broke. He visited the café three times a week and bought me a sandwich. He wanted me to come to his place in town but I refused so he moved on to my roommate, the only other African-American woman in the hospital. She’d go visit him sometimes. She also went in the woods with him to have sex. I sure tried to talk her out of it but she said, “I have needs too”.

There were two African-American male patients who couldn’t stand one another. One of them liked me. I’ll never forget the day when we were outside together and he said, “I hid a steel pipe in a bush to hit Ray with.” He then went on to tell me that he was in the mental institution because he killed his sister’s boyfriend but got a shorter sentence by pleading insanity. After that, I eased out of that friendship.

Though I was enjoying myself I was waiting to get you back so we could return to Atlanta. Getting you back was the only thing I cared about so I even wrote my landlord in Atlanta asking him if I could return to my apartment. I never did hear from him but I thought it would be all right even though I hadn’t paid the rent in seven months. He had been, after all, a loyal landlord.

In late August, they met to discuss my future. There were about twenty professionals seated in a square around me. I was nervous and unsure with so many doctors there, but I was confident about my plan to return to Atlanta with you so you could start school. My hope that we’d be able to return to Atlanta kept me going. The doctors didn’t say much during the meeting. They asked a few questions about the landlord and if he’d replied to my letter about returning. I admitted that he hadn’t responded and no one commented. The next step was to see about the custody hearing for you

I was assigned a social worker and a free public assistance lawyer to represent me in the custody case between my parents and me. I saw the lawyer three times and he warned me that my case wasn’t strong. What a farce. I was in a mental hospital and there was little chance that I’d retain custody of you. Nevertheless, the lawyer was kind and genuinely tried to help me. On the court day, when it was time for me to meet the social worker to go to court, I disappeared. I refused to go because I realized I had no way of winning. I couldn’t stand to watch my parents receive custody of you, which is exactly what happened. The doctors knew I’d be devastated, so they sent me back to the locked building in case I tried to hurt myself.

I was sitting in the day room totally depressed when, much to my astonishment, you and Granny appeared. In hindsight, I know she was trying to be kind by bringing you to see me but at the time it felt like she was stabbing me in the heart. I didn’t know what to say to you. When we had talked on the phone, I always told you we’d be back in Atlanta in time for school. Now, all I could think was, “I’ll never be with you again.” I didn’t say one word to you during your visit and you didn’t have much to say either. You sat there in a pretty little dress looking confused and sad. You were told that you’d be staying with your grandparents and you probably didn’t know what to think.

Hope can get you through things. When all seems lost, hope can act as a life raft that will keep you afloat when you’re in deep water. I appreciate the power of hope because I lost all hope when I lost custody of you. You gave me hope. The one thing I wanted most in the world, to be with you, was taken from me. My spirit was broken and my whole reason for living was gone. My vision of you and I returning to Atlanta was replaced by the image of me spending the rest of my life in a mental institution.

I didn’t want to have you visit me in a hospital for the rest of your life. How could my life have come to this? I was homecoming queen. I was married. I had the life people dreamed about and I wound up in a mental institution. Something inside me snapped and my mind scrambled and went completely blank as if I had had a stroke.

I disconnected from the world because it was too painful for me. I had a nervous breakdown and I didn’t talk or think straight for years. I can’t blame it on the medicine because I wasn’t taking any at that time. Deeply depressed and disillusioned, I started taking the medicine again for many years. I didn’t read anymore because my eyes couldn’t focus when I was medicated. I stopped listening to music. I became completely listless – a walking zombie.

All I could think was, “I lost my daughter, my husband, my home and all my money and I’ll never leave this place. I’ll drown myself the first time I get out this locked building” and that’s exactly what I tried to do six weeks later when I was allowed to leave the lockup.

I headed straight to the lake and walked in. I kept going until the water was over my head and then, in the back of my mind, I heard you say, “What happened to my mommy?”

Just the thought of that snapped me out of it. You’d been through enough and I couldn’t put you through that too. So I came out of the lake and returned to the ward. A nurse asked me, “Why are you so wet”? So I told her I had gone swimming although it was September in Connecticut. She didn’t say anything else about it and neither did I. I’d become such a non-talking oddball, I guess they probably didn’t know what to expect from me. The staff couldn’t believe how much I had changed as I was no longer happy go lucky but stiff, quiet and completely zoned out.

Half an hour after my suicide attempt, I went to my weekly one-on-one counselling sessions that were set up by a psychiatrist who’d become concerned about me when I stopped talking. I tried to kill myself less than an hour ago and everything was continuing like a normal day. During my session, I didn’t mention my suicide attempt or much of anything else. Instead, I talked about my mother.

Back on medicine, I gained twenty pounds in two weeks. Looking good was important to me and I hated how the medicine caused such quick weight gain. All I wanted to do was eat and sleep. As they locked all the bedroom doors during the day, I had to sleep on a chair in the TV room. In the locked building, there were nurses who would distribute medicine, do the laundry, and monitor us when we showered. I remember one nurse helped me wash my hair. Another one noticed that I dressed halfway nice so she brought in a fashion magazine for us to look at together. It was nice of them both to try to connect with me.

While I was in the locked facility, Bob came to visit. He’d visited me several months before when I was in the unlocked facility. He knew my plan was to return to Atlanta with you in the fall. When he found out my plans had fallen through and I was still in Norwich, he came back to see me. There was a world of difference in me between his first visit and this one. I was now sad, hopeless and disillusioned.

“How are you Sakeenah?” he asked.
I sighed and gave a half-hearted shrug.
“What happened?” He asked. “I thought you’d be back in Atlanta with Anika by now.”
“I lost custody of her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me too” I said sadly, and then added “Sometimes I wish I were dead.”
“Don’t give up. You have your daughter to live for. You’ll see Anika again. She still needs you. Just give it some time. You never know what twists and turns life will take. You may be down now, but you’ll get back on your feet. You need to get a job and start working again. You’ll get yourself together. Look at you. You’re dressing well. You look good.”

I smiled for the first time in a long while. I needed to hear those words. He sat with me for a while after that. We didn’t say much, but his presence was comforting. You never know how kind words or acts of compassion can lift someone up. Bob inspired me to start working in the factory on the campus so I’d have something productive to do.

Around this time, I also started talking to my mother and Aunt Vicky. They were so happy to hear from me. They sent me care packages with tuna fish, crackers, instant coffee and money. Now I could buy things in the café.

Excited to have me back in the fold, Mom, Carmen, Jackie and you came to visit. I was still a zombie, but I was able to communicate more with you. You were still distant towards me but you showed me your schoolwork. You told me about school and how well you were doing. I wasn’t surprised because I knew how smart you were. After you left one of the other patients who overheard our conversation said you must have gotten your brains from your dad. Years later Carmen told me that during their visit they spoke to my psychiatrist who told them that I would need to be taken care of for the rest of my life. Thank goodness I proved him wrong. But that wouldn’t be for many years to come.

In November, I had another meeting to discuss my plans to leave. I said I wanted to go back to Cleveland so I could be with you. They said they would pay for me to go back, but it would be after Christmas so I was sent back to the Pathway Building while I waited for the arrangements to be made.

After being institutionalized for ten months, I was flown to Cleveland, Ohio, between Christmas and New Years in 1981…*

I was a complete zombie when I got off the plane and saw you and Granny. Imagine, here I was after all these years back under the same roof with Mom. When I was young, I swore I’d never live in Cleveland again. Well, love changes things. I came back because of you. I thought I’d at least have my old room again but now it was yours. I was stuck with the bunk beds in the smaller room. I got back a day before your seventh birthday party at Chuck E Cheese. My mother told me I couldn’t go, so I just shrugged my shoulders. I was so out of it, it didn’t even faze me. I just went to sleep. I slept twenty hours a day or at least that’s what it felt like.

When I first returned, everyone was excited to see me. Dad and Mom were happy to have me home. Mom brought me breakfast on a tray for me to eat in bed the morning after I arrived. You were bubbly and talkative to me again. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t talk to you. You know how much I love to talk, so imagine what it was like for me to be around you and our family and not be able to comprehend what to say to anyone. I felt like a stranger in my own mind. I wanted to be homeless so I could get away from everyone.

Even though I experienced no emotion, known as “flat affect”, a common symptom of schizophrenia, I had inner turmoil. I felt awful when I was awake. I kept thinking I should get a gun and commit suicide in the basement. Thank goodness there is a law prohibiting the sale of guns to mental patients too soon after release. This is a much-needed law that should be enforced.

After a week, things settled down and everyone returned to their normal routine. There wasn’t anything for me to do so I continued sleeping. Granny did everything for you. She got you ready for school in the morning. She did your hair, picked out your clothes and made your breakfast. She made your lunch and had your snack ready for you when you got home from school. She helped with your homework, gave you your baths and read you your bedtime stories. She took you to all your activities. Gracious, were you ever involved in a lot of activities. There was tennis, dance, and music theory but I never got to go with you. Instead, I’d sit home, napping and watching television. I thought to myself, this is Granny’s child. All I did was name her…*

Thankfully, your grandparents took good care of you during that time. I am so glad you got to know Granny and Papa. Back then I didn’t realize how fortunate we were to even be together. Many consumers who have children lose contact with them. If you’d been lost to the foster care system, I might not have ever seen you again. It’s rare to have a severe mental illness and have a good relationship with your child. If it hadn’t been for Mom and Dad, we might not have the relationship that we do today.”

*abridged

The book has been receiving positive reviews and psychiatrist, Dr. Sarah Vinson, wrote; “This book will provide validation and inspiration for families who face similar struggles, as well as provide mental health care providers with perspectives that can inform care.”

This is an interview they did on TV-20 in Cleveland, OH
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFoiy4faLWY

To read more, you can read samples online at: www.bridgeross.com

The book is available at Amazon and in e-book formats for Kindle, Kobo, Nook and via the Apple I-book store and Google Play.

You can buy hard copies at Chapters/Indigo, Barnes and Noble as well as from any other bookseller with titles from Ingram Publishers.

JOIN A FORUM DISCUSSION on FAMILY STORIES IN TEXT

BACK TO FAMILY STORIES IN TEXT