The Sadness of Being Full

The eldest brother seemed pretty normal. He did yard work around the neighborhood. For many years he did a wonderful job maintaining the rose garden for the lady across the street. Until one day something inside his poor heart snapped and he took a rolled up newspaper and hacked every flower off each bush. We were told the men in white coats came and took him away.

That was what happened to my moms little brother. He went "schitzo". He was only sixteen, about 7 or 8 years older than me. He was living with my grandparents in the desert outside Las Vegas.

“Dad! Dad! I need some shovels. We have to find the gold left behind by the aliens. There’s gold in the desert dad. We’ll be rich!” Russ said.

“Know way, your crazy. Who told you this?”

“The voice told me.”

There was no gold, only voices. Russ’ brain had unlocked a mysterious box full of voices that told him hundreds of wild things.

My grandfather took him to the hospital after the treasure trip didn’t pan out. At first the doctors said that he had taken LSD and that he might be okay. But when things didn’t get better, they said he was schizophrenic.

He was sitting next to me in the backseat of my parent’s car, shortly after he was diagnosed. I always thought he looked like Jesus, skinny, long brown hair, sad brown eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said, “they just don’t want me anymore.”

I was profoundly affected by this experience. I was terrified of drugs for one and decided I would never even try them. I didn’t even like to take aspirin.

My grandparents did their best to take care of him but it was too difficult. Once he almost burnt the house down falling asleep with a cigarette. Grandma had taken away his lighter and matches, but he lit it with the toaster. In the end he became a ward of the state of Nevada. After a few years, the state moved him to a facility in Los Angeles.

We would visit him once in awhile. Take him some clothes and food. Sign him out for a day trip. Every time we saw him he was barely dressed. The other patients were always taking his clothes.

One time, all he had was a pair of filthy blue jeans and a rope for a belt. No shirt. His skin was covered in cigarette burns, we never knew if they were self-inflicted, from the other patients or even the staff. By this time he hardly ever spoke, from the medication I guess. We cleaned him up, dressed him and took him out for a burger and fries. Then we drove to an apple farm to pick apples and have some homemade apple pie. When we put a slice in front of him, he started to cry. Big fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

When we asked, "Why are you crying Russ?"

All he could say was, "I'm full."