My Fault

It had always been my fault…from the very start. No-one spoke about it though, not Mum and not Dad either. But I could see it in Dad's eyes, especially after Mum was gone, that look, part pitying, part apprehensive, and fully guilty- as if he felt guilty for blaming me.

He was right in blaming me though. She might never have even been sick if it weren't for my existence…she might never have died that way.

It had started soon after I was born, or at least that's what I've been told…

She started getting nightmares- bad ones, ones that made her skittish and twitchy when she was awake. The doctors had diagnosed her with post-natal depression and sent her off with pills, all seemed good after that…for a while at least.

She got distracted soon enough, finding it harder and harder to concentrate on everyday things like reading a book and cooking herself breakfast. Eventually Dad had to do almost everything for her. It seemed pretty bad then, all she would do all day was either sleep or play the piano- writing masses upon masses of songs and compositions.

Eventually, though, it got even worse. She grew paranoid…about everything. Her food, the government…the old man across the road…even Dad.

It was only when she started calling him possessed- saying that Dad wasn't her husband- that he was some weird demon…that was when he finally got her some help.

She was soon diagnosed with a potent case of paranoid schizophrenia, caused by her genes- triggered by giving birth. There was a chance she would have got it eventually anyway, but there was a chance she wouldn't have either…My birth destroyed that chance.

I remember her being happy, smiling and reading me books, constantly talking about the new songs she'd heard on the radio that day…

I also remembered what she was like on bad days though…she stayed away from everyone, holing herself up in her room and crying all day. Once I'd walked in on her and she was banging her own head against the headboard…it looked like it hurt, but I guess that was the point.

She hadn't told me about them first, the delusions…when I'd grown older though, she seemed less careful. She told me them all…the ones about the government- how they were poisoning our food and controlling us with our medication. She told me how they had spies…that they worked with the demons- how the government created these secret surveillance/mind control chips- and the demon went inside your body to put them in.

Each time she spoke of it, she got more compassionate…more crazed. It wasn't…it wasn't healthy and Dad had tried to convince her of that. But she assured him it was okay…that she knew her theories were a bit out there, and that he couldn't possibly understand them, but she promised she wouldn't act on them. It relieved him, and soon he stopped worrying so much.

That was…until I'd come home from school one day when I was eleven and found her handing by the ceiling with a rope tied around her neck.

I probably screamed loud enough for Dad to hear me all the way across town.

She lived…the bruises were pretty disturbing, and Dad went crazy at the hardware store- demanding to know who the Hell would sell fucking rope to a sick woman.

Dad went quiet after that…not coming home much and taking way more nightshifts on just so he didn't have to. I honestly believe it was because he couldn't see her…couldn't watch her waste away and deteriorate.

Which was exactly what she did.

She lost weight…like, heaps. She didn't sleep and went for long, long walks that I was always afraid she'd never come back from. She didn't talk…stopped reading me books and pretty much spent all day on the piano- not laughing, not crying…no emotion at all. Just the sound of music playing and her fingers flying across the keys.

She slit her wrists when I was twelve. I was taken out of school midday when my Dad made a call and sent one of the deputies to pick me up.

He cried at her bedside…didn't leave for days- not even to eat or sleep.

After she was released…he started drinking…not a lot, just a glass of whiskey after a long day of work and worrying about his wife…

The third time she decided to end her own life- my mother succeeded.

I was fourteen, just finishing up my homework when she came into my room looking pale and crying. She hugged me, told me to be a good boy…told me she loved me and that I needed to look after Dad…then she collapsed, convulsing with froth spewing out of her mouth.

She'd overdosed on her own anti-psychotic medication. The medication I was supposed to make sure she never got her hands on.

When Dad found out, he went silent…he didn't cry, or scream, or fall to his knees dramatically. He just went silent.

It wasn't until late at night, finding myself also unable to sleep…that I heard the sobs coming from his bedroom. That was the first night since I was six that I'd crawled into bed and slept wrapped up in my Dad's arms.

I couldn't handle the funeral. Everyone wearing black…like her life was some dark, depressing thing. Everyone talking about how sad they were…how she was such a damaged soul.

It wasn't true. She'd been outspoken, spastic and adventurous. She'd been wonderful. And all these people seemed to have forgotten that- instead preferring to bask in the tragic romance of her story. It made me feel sick. No one cared about her. Not like Dad and I did…these people just loved a good tradgedy and a story to tell- a story they would get wrong.

The panic attacks started soon after that.

It was just the knowledge of her absence that caused it. It was like, back when she was still with us…I didn't notice how much space she took up until she stopped being there.

It was like any little thing that reminded me of her just set it off. I smelt a lady wearing her perfume…panic attack. I saw her favourite show, or heard her favourite song…panic attack. The same with her cooking, anyone who looked like her, anyone who acted like her…Seeing something and thinking 'hey mum would like that….oh wait. She's dead- she doesn't like anything anymore.'

Dad was even worse though…he couldn't even enter their bedroom…which meant long, uncomfortable night sobbing out his woes and drinking booze on the living-room couch.

Sometimes I woke up and checked if her was breathing….just in case he had decided to drown himself in Jack.

We stopped going to church too…or Dad did, since I'd never believed in God anyway.

He blamed God, I think…blamed him for taking away his wife…leaving him a single dad with an ADHD kid and a minimum wage job.

He shouldn't have blamed God though…he should've blamed me.

It was my fault after all…my entire existence was the reason she got sick in the first place.

I killed my mother.

It was my fault.

And I'll never forgive myself.

My elder brother actually has Paranoid Schizophrenia and the two of us a really close...so some of the actions and symptoms I've written I've actually witnessed in him. I wrote this story because every day I'm scared he might do the same as Mama Stilinski.