When the doorbell rang and I saw him through the crack of
the open curtain, I immediately ran to my bedroom and locked the door.
I thought after the police tackled him a few days earlier
and taken him to a mental hospital, he would be gone for good.
It took me years to fully understand how schizophrenia
affected my brother, that it was treatable, and not taboo for an immigrant
Asian family to talk about mental illness. And now, I can’t see my brother as
anything other than a loving person that had just been dealt an unlucky hand.
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