Robinson Stars and Skeletons

Tales of Life with My Schizophrenic Brother
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-952785-01-6
Verlag: Three Uncles Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten

Reihe: Stars and Skeletons

A Story of Love, Hope and Healing. Tim's happy, carefree childhood seemed lost forever as he descended into the delusions of schizophrenia. His brother, Dave, choosing to stay connected to Tim through the darkness, shows us how love can run deeper than mental illness.

David Robinson, MDiv, DMin Dave has been many things, including business owner, painter, sculptor, creative writer, mentor, counselor, and professor. He is the Director of Creative Interfaces, a nonprofit focused on fostering creativity, personal growth, and spiritual development. The website is creativeinterfaces.org. He lives with his wife, Karen, in Marin County, California, where they have hosted creative events and managed a community house for over twenty years.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Robinson, David

Leseproben

HEY TIMMY I enjoyed the feel of the warm sidewalk against my four-year-old legs as I sat down. I looked down the street where I saw my older brother Doug and several other boys casually riding their bikes in my direction. I crouched down low behind the hedge, waiting. It was a sunny Southern California day. Our lives at that time revolved around a simple house in a suburban neighborhood while Dad was stationed at Point Mugu Naval Air Station. Unlike the other dads in the neighborhood, he wore a Navy officer’s uniform, which made him seem important. “That’s my man. You look great, Honey,” commented my mom, her eyes beaming with admiration. I watched him put his officer’s hat over his short, dark wavy hair. Dad was tall, strong, and wore it well. That uniform made me feel important too. Sometimes Dad would put me in the car with him and we’d travel to another Navy base in San Diego. I tend to remember warm days—the sun shining into the car as I rode with my dad, or one of my favorite sensations, the feel of the warm sun on the sidewalk. This, of course, caused a problem if bicycles were cruising down the same sidewalk. There it is—that clear memory among the vague images of life at that time—sticking my head out from behind the hedge to surprise my brother and his friends, then feeling the black bicycle tire mushing its rubbery tread into my skin as it rolled over the side of my head, squashing the top of my ear against my skull. Then it was over, or so I thought for one split second until the back tire provided a second helping. Running into the house, I found Mom brushing her dark brown hair in front of a mirror. She met me with a smile, followed by a look of concern. “What happened to your head?” “It got run over.” The delayed tears felt free to flow now that Mom was with me. I figured I would cry as long as she offered comfort, and I could certainly generate tears when necessary. “I was just trying to surprise them,” I explained. My head was scraped up a bit, but in truth it didn’t hurt that much. Doug ran into the house with a concerned look. “Is David okay?” Mom nodded, then looked up to the sudden sound of someone else who was also crying. “Oh, we woke the baby,” said Mom, as she left me to attend to him. I watched Mom holding Timmy, the new recipient of her doting affection. For as long as I could remember, I had been the youngest brother. Not anymore. My role would now change forever. “Hey, Timmy.” I spoke quietly, not wanting to startle him. When I startled him, he would cry for a while which is not what I wanted. “How you doin’ today?” He was staring at the wall, or the slats on his crib, or maybe at nothing. A fine tuft of blond baby hair stuck straight up above his forehead. “You’re going to look like me,” I declared. My big brother Doug had darker skin than mine and very dark, full, wavy hair. I was blond—usually sporting a crew cut. “I wonder when you’ll be big enough to play outside.” Suddenly, as if he had just become aware of my presence, he turned his head and looked at me. “You wanna play outside?” A huge grin landed on his face and stayed there. “Mom, Timmy wants to play outside,” I hollered to the other room. “You leave him be,” was the response. “But he wants to play,” I shouted back. “Don’t worry Timmy,” I said softly. There will be lots of time to go out and play.” Impossibly, his grin got even bigger. TWINKLE TWINKLE BOOM Several months after Tim was born, the Navy transferred Dad to the Naval Training Center in San Diego. We moved to another house where Tim had his first birthday. Soon after, Dad all but disappeared when they stationed him aboard a ship in the Pacific Fleet. He was gone for months—a long time for young kids. One evening, Mom told Doug and me to go get in the car and wait for her. The December sunset brought the night’s darkness early and a few stars came into view. Timmy stood in the front yard looking up. He seemed to think the night sky was something alive, that it was not far away but close, offering something and expecting a response. He and I shared that perspective. He stood in silence, pointing upward, transfixed. He wanted to touch the heavens, but he was too short. Mom’s voice responded as she picked him up and sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. He’d been restless, and the sight of the stars and moon quieted him. The babysitter showed up and Mom left her with Tim, still looking into the sky as we drove off to our big rendezvous at the Navy base. Bright lights flooded the pier as The USS Hopewell approached, churning up the dark seawater, slowly brought to berth where we stood waiting. Dad was returning from West Pac—six months aboard a Navy ship in the Western Pacific. “Your dad brought home some presents for you boys.” Mom’s big smile had been stuck on her face from the moment the ship came into view. Doug was intrigued. “Presents?” He and I looked at each other with excitement. We toured the ship with Dad that night. I felt excited to be aboard with all the sailors, some of whom were unloading wooden crates onto the dock. Two of those crates were delivered to our house later that evening. We all stood in the front yard watching Navy personnel unload the gifts from Dad. Doug and I took to guessing what was in the crates. Tim took to staring at the sky. Even when Mom pointed to the crates being carried into our house, Tim seemed far more interested in the stars. The next morning, Doug and I were up early, Tim following us around. “Dad, when can we open the boxes?” Doug yelled. Dad was in his room with Mom, his muffled voice calling from the bed. “Pretty soon.” “No, now!” I shouted. “Soon,” yelled Dad. “You boys be patient,” came Mom’s voice through the door. My parents realized they wouldn’t get any privacy anyway, so they came out, and the unpacking began. It was a noisy business, requiring tools, but the loot slowly emerged: Two bicycles. “English racers,” Dad announced with a smile. “Wow. English racers,” Doug and I repeated. We didn’t know what that meant, but they were bikes, and we couldn’t have been happier. Tim suddenly paused his otherwise perpetual motion and stared at Dad as if he had just recognized him. “Daddy!” he squealed, trying to catapult himself across the floor in a fast hobble—falling forward and barely catching himself with each step. He slammed into Dad’s knee, and Dad picked him up. “Timmy—how you doin’ buddy?” Tim’s excitement at seeing Dad modeled outwardly what my brother Doug and I were feeling. That night we all went back to the base where the Navy was hosting an event involving fireworks. We spread a blanket on a huge lawn, ready to watch the fireworks with a crowd of celebrating people. Tim watched the stars come out, one by one. The crowd cheered as the first sudden burst of light scattershot itself in all directions. Tim opened his mouth in shock, startled by the sight and sound. We thought he would like it, but he cried uncontrollably, trying to say something no one understood. All of us tried to console him, without success. Finally Mom put together what he was trying to say. He thought the moon was exploding. MOM, HILLBILLIES, AND COAL TRAINS Our mother came off as a very put-together woman. She wore dresses, curled her hair, and kept herself always looking and smelling good. However, she wore no jewelry, not even a wedding ring. She also carried a big secret. Or, maybe surprise is a better word, as she had no shame about it. People would often lean in, interested, when they learned about her past. “Fleta, you came from where?” they would ask with obvious incredulity. Yes, our mom’s name was Fleta. She enjoyed telling stories from her childhood, and we enjoyed hearing them. “Boys, if you ever hear people talking about hillbillies, that’s me. I’m a hillbilly.” The world of her childhood was comprised of mountainous terrain, ravines, two or three creeks, an abundance of trees, a valley, and, at one time, a small wooden house put together so poorly that she could feel the wind on the inside, even when all the windows and doors were closed. There was a railroad track on which trains, usually coal trains, would rumble past any time of the day or night. She was the oldest of three kids, unless I count Uncle Harry, who died before Mom was born. It was a family of five—the Rhodes family. She could visit neighbors if she walked around a hillside or across the valley. She made the acquaintance of a few cows, goats, and hound dogs. The dogs would often be hanging out in their usual habitat—an old wood porch that may have been painted once, long ago, complete with a...