Art by Vivian Mineker
My dad was a strong man. Well set, with big strong weathered hands. Well read, and could talk extensively about anything under the sun. Super fit too, ran ten miles every day up into his seventies.
I looked up to him like most kids do with their dads – with unconditional adoration.
At age 10, that changed.
He was acting weird for a couple of days. There were a lot of fights, then suddenly he packed a bag, and left the house. I remember he bought me a Cadbury bar, and I ate it, tears streaming down my face, while he walked out on us.
I was 10. I cried and cried and cried. I don’t remember much more. I found out much later that my dad was schizophrenic.
I should’ve picked up on cues when he said that there were people out to kill him, and they were waiting in a jeep outside. But hey, I was 10.
It was tough. Can’t even imagine what it was like for him, but it was really tough on us as a family. I remember my mom crying, and being on the phone a lot, talking to relatives to find out whether they had heard from him.
He came back a month later, and my mother and the rest of the family pulled together to get him help.
The next couple of years were tough, as it never really went away. There would be months on end that were great, but then there would be a trigger, and he would relapse. I left home for college many years later, and remember once coming back for the holidays and he was in one of his relapses. He said something along the lines of – ‘Oh look, the hyena is here to feast on the old bull.’
I was 19. I didn’t cry.
My dad was a strong man.
My mom though? She was a fucking rock.