Learning to Choose Myself

“Your brother is in the hospital again,” my mom said, her voice urgent as she packed his shorts, Crocs, and the rollercoaster book he had memorized.

“When isn’t he in the hospital?” my sister replied, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not like last time,” my mom replied. “He’s going to be there for a while. He swallowed a bunch of his antipsychotics…”  

I cut her off. “What do you mean he swallowed his antipsychotics? How did he get them?” My face paled. My older brother had attempted suicide before, usually with little intention to die and more intention to watch TV, play badminton, or avoid his reading lessons.

“He wanted to go to badminton, but I told him no because of his outburst at school. I don’t know,” she replied, rushing out the door, shoving clothes into the bag.

The drive to the hospital was so quiet that you could hear the rapid heartbeats of everyone in the car. My brother had never tried something this drastic. The weight of reality was settling uncomfortably in our minds.

My brother is 18 and he’s always struggled to control his emotions and behavior. He has a developmental disability and has been diagnosed with a mood disorder. It’s hard to remember a time when my life didn’t revolve around his needs. His challenges demanded everyone’s attention.

From the Beginning

“Rose, could I speak to you for a moment?”

I was in 2nd grade, and my teacher approached me with a cool smile.

A chill went down my spine. I imagined failing an exam, being pulled from the advanced group, or being in trouble for not replacing a glue stick.

As my mind raced, I managed to let out a quiet, “Yes.”

I followed her into the hallway, where three adults towered over me: two teachers and the principal. I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to deserve the worried glances toward my face.

“Rose, your brother… he’s upset, and he left the classroom… we need your help,” the other teacher stammered.

I looked around the hallway, searching for someone, anyone to absolve me of this responsibility. This was supposed to be my reading time.

Even though I was young, I was used to taking responsibility for my brother at home. When my parents were too frustrated with him, they’d leave him with me to calm down or run errands, even when I didn’t want to. I’d spend hours patiently reading to him and putting aside my interests to focus on his hobbies, like listening to every statistic about rollercoasters. 

Sometimes helping my brother was easy, and sometimes it wasn’t, but I couldn’t imagine making any other choice. He is my brother. I love him.

“OK, I’ll help you,” I responded apathetically. “He likes McDonald’s, his occupational therapy room, and hallways since he likes to slide down the stair rails.”

I knew where he was. If he tried to go to McDonald’s, the security guard would stop him. If he were in OT, then his therapist would alert the teachers that he was all right, so I knew he was on the staircase. 

My ability to deduce my brother’s behaviors made me question my knowledge of myself. If I ran away, where would I go? I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know, and nobody else would either.

When I first started school, it was a refuge. I looked forward to the safety and attention I received in a space that felt like my own. But from that day forward, school was no longer a safe space of independence for me. Whenever my brother’s emotions spiraled out of control, I was pulled out of my peaceful world and thrown into his chaotic one.

He Won’t Be Home for a While

Much of my childhood had felt like an ongoing struggle, often giving up my life for him. But this latest suicide attempt was unlike anything he had ever done before. None of my sacrifices could fix this. This attempt couldn’t be undone; he had taken a lot of his antipsychotics rather than run away and threaten to jump off of somewhere easy to reach him. 

As we pulled into the parking lot, the glaring LED lights spelled “Emergency Room.” It wasn’t the pediatric one. In the lobby, the fish games and Disney cartoons were nowhere to be found. After a 10-minute wait, my sister and I ventured through the stiff hospital hallways to a lukewarm, butter-colored room.

I finally saw my brother. He stared up at the harsh overhead lights, with a toothy grin, eyes glistening and dilated, legs tangled between his hospital gown and off-white sheets. He was in the same room as me, but seemed to be galaxies away. My grandmother was right beside him.

For most of my life, I had mourned the life that my brother would never get to live, while neglecting my future.

My anger at the stress he’d put, once again, on my family and me slowly dissipated and transformed into anxiety. I was reminded that he’s stuck in the imaginative state of childhood.

I stared at my brother, tied to his bed in the hospital; he was stuck, and I was stuck with him. For most of my life, I had mourned the life that my brother would never get to live, while neglecting my future.

As the lights glared in my eyes, I could faintly hear my grandmother whisper, “It’s time to go home.”

As I left the hospital and turned around, I realized that I could leave, that I had to. No matter how much time I sacrificed, I couldn’t save him, but maybe I could finally save myself.

That night when I returned home, I lay in my chilly room unable to sleep. I let my mind race with possibilities of who I could be. Who am I? I couldn’t imagine myself independently; I was no one without my brother. This depressing realization created a sense of urgency for me: I was abandoning my future even though it might not change his.

Through my tear-filled eyes, I pulled my laptop toward me to research future possibilities that I had all but abandoned. I stumbled upon a school, known for its open curriculum, quaint, quiet college town, and purple and white signature colors. The school had about one-third the number of students of my current high school and three times the amount of greenery. It was the opposite of everything I had already experienced, and I loved it. I chose this college to be my dream school, and in choosing that school, I was also choosing myself. It was a simple choice, mostly symbolic. But it was a start.

Finally Choosing Me

The next day, we went as a family to visit my brother, who had been transferred to the psych ward. My mom clenched the steering wheel and gritted her teeth in frustration and fear and drove in the wrong direction several times. As I walked to the entrance, my legs felt heavy. My stomach churned as I set foot into the cool lobby.

After 30 minutes of bickering and paperwork, I was allowed to visit my brother. I had to relinquish all of my possessions—my phone, wallet, and any tool that could be used as a weapon. As I entered the brightly lit floor, I found my brother sitting alone in a large plastic chair, staring outside the window. The active, enthusiastic, and moody boy I knew resembled a helpless young man.

Holding back my tears, I mumbled, “Hey, Josh.”

His eyes welled with tears. He lunged toward me, embracing me in a tight hug. The entire two-hour visit, he clung to my arm and lay on my shoulder. 

When it was time to leave, I hugged him goodbye one last time, and as he waved I broke down outside. My dreams of college almost disappeared as quickly as they had formed. I felt horrible knowing I would one day have to abandon him again.

In the car, I was overcome with emotion. Just the night before I had decided that I had to move forward in my life in some small way. I couldn’t live just for my brother. Now, I couldn’t face the idea of abandoning him. My mom watched me with compassion and said, “It’s not your fault. He’ll be all right. You’ll have all the time in the world when I’m gone to take care of him. Focus on your life right now.”

I looked up at her with tears in my eyes, realizing that she was right. I have my whole life to grieve the life my brother never got to live, while my future was on life support right in front of me.

It’s been two months since that incident. My brother is back home and has home health aides, which allows me to continue to move forward, while also taking steps back in terms of his care. When my brother started going to specialized therapy, I was able to be consistent with my internship at the Met. I didn’t have to skip work days to take care of him and he’s been progressing emotionally with the new resources available to him. 

My search for colleges, internships, and programs has helped me understand what it truly means to act with love toward myself. Everything hasn’t changed, but I’m making slightly different choices. It’s about choosing schools for their opportunities, not their proximity to my brother. It’s about picking summer programs like YC so I can learn more about writing and tell my stories. 

My care for him isn’t a choice between him and me, but a commitment to both of us. Choosing my future doesn’t erase my love for my brother. It just means I’m finally loving myself too.