My Mother, a Paranoid Schizophrenic

A middle-aged Filipino woman stood in her bedroom, naked for the third time that day, her body curved slightly to the right from stress. Her face was ashen as she wailed that bugs were crawling up her legs. But no matter what she did, she could never be rid of these pests that haunted her. The bugs she saw were all in her mind.

That woman was my mama, who was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when I was in high school. Unlike my two-decade older siblings, who remember my mother for her charm, intelligence and beauty, I've known her only as a woman haunted by hallucinations, insistent about locking every door in the house and paranoid that others were trying to steal money she didn't have.

And yet, unlike my brother and sister, I'm not ashamed to face it. I'm not afraid to talk about it. We've sought treatment for my mama, and we take care of her at home.

Americans openly speak of AIDS, cancer, and other illnesses, and fight for their cures, but why not mental illness? By failing to address these attitudes, those who are mentally ill are prevented from seeking the treatment they require, and their families are inhibited from finding the support they need.

If you were to grade the national mental health system, it would get no more than a D, according to a 2006 study by the National Alliance on Mental Illness. The mental and physical health of immigrants and their children deteriorates with increasing assimilation to a U.S. lifestyle, a U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention survey revealed.

Maria's madness, her family's shame

The living room reeks of body odor and two-week old garbage. Piles of dirty laundry mixed with old newspapers and coupons cover the chairs and sofa. Violet's* mother, Maria*, showers only once every other month. She washes her hands for more than 10 minutes and switches the lights on and off just to make sure they're off.

Maria battles depression and obsessive compulsive disorder. Her family believes she is also bipolar. Her one pleasure seems to be ridiculing her daughter. "I'm so much more educated than you," she hisses. She's also called Violet a demon and a whore.

"I'm not in denial [about my mom's illness], but other people are," says Violet, 25. "They know it's wrong to ignore (it), but they're not doing anything" about it.

Historically, the role of families in the treatment and recovery of mentally ill relatives has been taken for granted. Families function as the primary caregivers, directly affected by those for whom they care. But it can be very difficult for family members and others to see past the stigma of treatment.

Ana's addiction, her culture's discrimination

Elena* spent hours sitting in the same spot by her living room window, waiting for her mother, Ana*, to come home.

When she finally arrived after several days, Ana was on heroin again. She slipped off her pair of stilettos and began beating her girls with its heel. They screamed, horrified. Fighting for their lives, Elena's older sister flung a punch at her mother's face while seven-year-old Elena bolted to the phone.

Nearly 20 years later, Ana is no longer addicted to heroin, but has been diagnosed with depression, tested positive for Hepatitis C and HIV, and has Crohn's Disease.

The first time Ana started envisioning apparitions and hearing voices, she checked herself into a mental health clinic. However, the rest of her family remained in denial for years, convinced she had been faking her mental illness.

"Mexican families don't want to believe anything's wrong but [want to believe] that everything's all right," says Elena. "They think we've had to struggle and don't want people to know we're weak or that there's any weakness in our family."

Stigma is "the number one deterrent that prevents many cultures from seeking treatment," says Dr. Jei Africa, a Filipino clinical psychotherapist.