Schizophrenia - The Girl With The Shining Red Hair

The Girl with the Shining Red Hair

The phone is ringing for the 12^th time. I ignore it because I know it is my sister. She leaves me a message – “Hello Elaine I guess I’ll call you tomorrow I heard that they put me on Dateline and it was good, and across the street they told me that were proud that I did it Dr. Carter told me that I had more than seven bullets in my head that since I was shot and I survived that I must be innocent none the least and um Kendra just witnessed my baby rolling and farting and so I am pregnant and it’s not my mind. Love You Bye oh and don’t worry, and tell Jessica not to worry about what was on Channel 6 it didn’t hurt I didn’t show anything.”

She wasn’t always like this. She was beautiful with shining red hair and bright blue eyes. She even did some modeling in high school. She went to cosmetology school and became quite proficient as a colorist under the direction of Paul Mitchell himself. Of course like any girl, she fell in love and had the subsequent heartbreak. Many of us cry for some time, maybe get angry, but eventually our hearts heal and we move on to better things.

I remember the night I got a phone call when we were both in our 20’s. She was in New York, our parents were living in Italy and I was in Las Vegas. I could tell right away something was wrong. Her words didn’t make sense. She said that she and her boyfriend had broken up and she was afraid of what she might do. She said she burnt herself. I told her she needed to call 911 and that was the first of many hospitalizations.

Shortly after that my parents returned to the states and moved to Georgia. My sister joined them there. She seemed better for a while, even happy. She even started dating and had plans to marry. Sadly before the wedding happened, she suffered a heart attack that damaged a large portion of her heart and they postponed the wedding. Finally the big day arrived and she was a beautiful bride.

Sometimes the depression seemed to take over her life. For months she would be happy and excited about everything life had to offer and excited about learning new things. Then the bottom would fall out and she would be back in the hospital. She was a cosmetologist when the voices started.  Mostly degrading and hateful, sometimes just a whisper yet other times yelling in her ears. They were relentless.

She began a new life pursuit. She began attending culinary arts school. She loved it and she was good at it. Everything went well until it came time for her to complete her externship. She never was able to move on to that last step.

Her husband was another challenge in her life. As a chronic alcoholic himself, he was unable to help care for Gina. Part of me felt sorry for him because I knew it could not be easy living with someone with a disease that when uncontrolled can be the roller coaster from hell. Other times I was angry and blamed him because he wouldn’t get well himself so he could help her. My mom helped as much as she could, often driving the 130 mile round trip weekly to help. 

My dad, on the other hand, was angry. It was hard for him to understand that Gina was sick. He didn’t understand that she wasn’t trying to be irresponsible. He also hated that her husband was not helping her more.

I moved out to Georgia in 2009. Unexpectedly my mom passed away one month after I got here. I took over the care of my dad. As a blessing, because of his Alzheimer’s, he forgot the animosity he had towards my sister and her husband. They had the reconciliation that she desperately needed. He passed away in April 2011.

I knew their passing would be hard on Gina. I assumed the role that my mother played and went out to take her to her doctor appointments on a monthly basis. It was painful sometimes to see the living conditions she lived in. Often she would call me because she and her husband were fighting. I’ll be honest, I hoped she would finally leave her husband, but she was convinced leaving would be worse. Her agitation and aggression got worse and often her husband would call me, not knowing how to handle the situation. I recommended that he take her to the hospital or call 911 so she could get the treatment she needed. 

I had been in contact with adult social services, the sheriff’s office and even the county judge trying to get some kind of intervention. Everyone told me their hands were tied. Unless she actually committed a crime they could not force her to get treatment.

In February 2012, I got the phone call I knew would eventually come. Gina’s husband called to tell me that he had been away at his mother’s and when he got home Gina was in the closet. She didn’t recognize him so she hit him in the head. He called 911, however he was arrested due to an outstanding warrant on a DUI charge.  Gina was left alone in the trailer.

It was time. I needed to get my sister into the hospital. My best friend went with me in case anything happened. I was not prepared for what I saw. Most of their belongings were on their front porch, along with piles of empty beer cans. I knocked on the door and I could hear her screaming profanities, jumbled sentences and random letters and numbers. She opened the door and then slammed it in my face. I was trying to balance myself precariously on the pile of clothes, knick-knacks and even a mattress. I knocked again and called out that I wanted to make sure she was alright. At that moment the door flew open and she pushed me off her porch.  She never has gotten physical before nor since that time. She yelled at me again and slammed the door shut. We headed into town to see the judge. He finally signed the order to have her hospitalized. 

She was in the psychiatric hospital for 2 months, then released to a personal care home, because her husband was still in jail at the time. Since then we have not seen nor heard from him, nor has he assisted with her care. She has invented new parents, rarely ever talking about our mom and dad. Multiple times she says her husband has been killed or they are divorced. She is convinced that a boy she dated in high school was actually Axel Rose, from the band Guns N’ Roses and that he is her husband.

Upon her release from the hospital her delusions were constant but she seemed happy with her living arrangement. Mostly she talks about money the government owes her for things she has invented. She talks about Axel and has multiple names for him. She believes she has over 30 children and that she is frequently pregnant, all of which is not true. She gets frustrated when I tell her I don’t have any checks or a bank card for her, but I can usually tell her I will check on them and she seems appeased for the time being.

During the next couple years there would be multiple hospitalizations We decided it would be best to move her into town and into a personal care home closer to me. It was also our hope that we would find a better doctor for her care.

In October 2015 things became critical. Gina woke up one morning unable to breathe. She was rushed to the hospital in V-tach. Her heart was not beating properly. Test results showed that her heart was only working at 20% and the left ventricle had damaged tissue. An anti-arrhythmia drug was added and she was released. 

There were six psychiatric hospitalizations in six months. One time she was almost catatonic when she was released. She looked right through you and wouldn’t answer you if you asked her a question. As the week progressed she seemed to get better, but as time went by she started to get more and more agitated and argumentative. On a trip to the cardiologist she seemed more irritable than ever, but I assumed it was because she might have thought she was going back to the hospital. It took multiple assurances that we were only going to the cardiologist. She seemed to settle down once the appointment was done.

Less than a week later I got a call from the personal care home. Gina was screaming and yelling and trying to leave the in the middle of the night. Even when she was shown a video of her attempts she denied it. Her delusions were angry and she was yelling out random things. I hopped in the car once again knowing a hospitalization was in store. When I got there she was yelling and just plain angry. I was able to convince her to go to the hospital with me and we headed to the emergency room.

They put us in a bare room and she constantly called out random things, some of them angry. I sat quietly not wanting to irritate her more. Each time a doctor or nurse came in she told them that she was the surgeon general and that all she needed was her prescriptions and marijuana because she thinks has glaucoma. She told them nothing is wrong with her. She just has brain damage from the bullets they pulled out of her skull. 

Once admitted she was refusing to take medication and would have to have injections in order to calm her down. Security was having to be called multiple times a day. On Christmas Day I went to see her. I did not want her to be all alone on such a special day. She would not hug me and was still very angry. I kept the visit short. Her face teamed with anger. The only time she smiled was when I gave her the M&M’s I brought her for a treat. A couple days later she was transferred to a more specific and secure facility. She has been in that psychiatric hospital for over a year now and her heart condition continues to decline.

Thankfully the hospital is in town so I am able to continue to be involved in her care.  However, I am tired. I struggle, trying to balance my need to care for my sister and my need to care for my daughter and somehow care for myself. My heart aches wondering if Gina will ever be stable. I feel guilty as I ask God to please give her relief, sometimes wondering if death would be better than the torture she is enduring. I look at her closely. Her hair is still the beautiful red, with highlights of gold, but her eyes are dark, her face angry.

I wait, not knowing . . . . I wait, wondering if she will ever come out of the hospital, I wait, wondering if she will have to go to yet another facility, I wait, wondering where she will be able to live, and I wait . . . .wondering if she will ever smile again.  

Schizophrenia - A First Hand Account

People have asked me about my sister. I decided the best thing would be to post in her own words. This writing was published in Choice Voice at Augusta College in 1994.

Schizophrenia - by Gina Van Duzee

I am hoping for my boyfriend to come back. The girls at work understand. They know that my condition makes roller coaster rides out of work.

As we sit in our chairs at a meeting, I see his face in front of me. I hear laughing, and I believe the figure is he.

Later, I am cutting a customer's hair, and all of a sudden, I feel anger inside me. There is so much anger I grit my teeth. It feels like a possession by some evil being. I move from side to side of the chair, fighting this being. My customer stares at me and is uncertain what is going on. I get through the haircut, and I sit down in the office. I light a cigarette and try to relax.

Schizophrenia is a nightmare, populated by the overwhelmingly powerful beings from the dark, who control and manipulate a helpless person with their laughs, snide remarks, and allusions. Of course, these beings aren't real. They come from the inside, attacking the subconscious, paralyzing with fear, tempting to suicide.

It's been a long stressful day. I undress, put my clothes in the hamper, jump into the shower, and slip on a night shirt. I lay my head down on the pillow, ready to sleep, and then, they start.

"Gina doesn't know what's going on!" An evil laugh. "Let's get her tomorrow." I can hear the voices loud and clear. Curious as it may seem, the voices are comforting because I hear them so often.

The next day, I hear footsteps behind me as I'm walking down the hallway of the mall. I turn around and look behind me. There is nothing there. My breathing becomes faster and frantic. I hear someone calling my name: "Gina." I feel the invisible stalker around me. I look from left to right: nothing.

Like so many times before, I realize that what I am hearing is coming from within. I scream and cry out of anguish and fall to my knees, crying.

Sometimes I can recognize these voices: these are from co-workers, so-called friends, people I trust. It makes it easy to distrust.

I feel really depressed. A man whom I admire is not willing to talk to me or touch me. I am lonely, yet not alone in this city. My parents are here, but there is no one my age to talk to. So I talk on the phone to my sister, who lives in Las Vegas, but I can't think straight. My sentences aren't clear, and I struggle with simple words. I am easily startled, and waves of paranoia rush through me. I am frantic and on the edge of suicide. She calms me down for an hour or two. Then, I have to go to work. I can't find my keys. I sit on the hassock, distressed.

I call work to ask if someone could pick me up. The manager sarcastically remarks, " Call 911." I am so desperate that I do call but do not speak very well. They find me at the house, sitting on the hassock. My legs shake as I walk to the ambulance.

Flashes of light rush past me, and I think I hear the paramedic say that I am dead and laugh.

The police come an take me to Georgia Regional. I scream, "You're not going to take me to a mental hospital!" As we walk to the door, I calm down. I ask for a light for my cigarette. The policeman stops periodically for me to smoke. Then I am locked up, caged in. I can only stare at the locked doors and watch television while sitting on a hard metal bench. For two weeks, I am trapped.

But the voices aren't always threatening. Sometimes they can be just fleeting fragments of sentences: "The cow is in the house." They can be disconnected gibberish: "This they when it's here." Sometimes the voices can be friendly. For example, I am walking down the hallway at the hospital. I have just been admitted. A voice asks me, "Gina, are you ok?" I stop and ask if someone said something, but everyone says no. Nevertheless, I feel more secure.

Before I went to the hospital, I did realize that I had a problem. The voices were so normal to me, that I believed it happened to everyone. I believed that I would have to suffer from these delusions for the rest of my life.

This disability can be treated with medication. I am on Navane, among other complementary medications. Other successful medications are Rispendal and Clozaril. With daily doses of medication, this disease can be controlled to a slow drawl. If medication is stopped, it happens again.

NOTE: Since this writing even more medications have been successful in the treatment of schizophrenia and other disorders related to mental illness. The key is to not suffer in silence. If you or someone you know is affected by mental illness, please reach out and get help.