He is not inmate AF5159.

He is not his mental illness.

He is my brother.

Medical Facility and Prison/3 years ago

He stands waiting behind the closed door. But he’s not in front of it peering out its little rectangular window like the rest of the inmates excited for visits. We wait for the guards to signal for all doors to be closed before letting us into the small visiting room.

The guard struggles to find the right key for the door. We have gone through this the past two years; it is always the last key. He begins to pace — not as if he’s agitated but like he’s fighting against an urge to do something else. The guard finally ushers us in and she eyes me with a wary look. It’s the same look I get whenever I tell someone I’m there for my brother.

I beam a smile back hoping she’d understand instead of judge the situation. I maneuver my powerchair next to one of the four stools attached to the table and wait. After hugging our mom, dad and sister, he hugs me and I offer a silent prayer as I savor the warmth that I, somehow, only receive from my brother.

My brother — inmate AF5159 of the Vacaville Medical Facility Center and Prison. He is diagnosed with schizophrenia and in March of 2008, after injuring me with a machete, he FINALLY received help.

Schizophrenia is the “disorder of thought or cognition; severe dysfunctions in the processes of thinking, perception, judgment, and recognition,” Professor Nolan Zane. This mental disorder disrupts an individual’s ability to think clearly and alters their personality once the illness surfaces. Individuals with schizophrenia cannot perceive between what is real and what is fake. For my brother, he believes he lives in his own world that he calls “toon world.” The thought of living a life where my body is in one physical state and my mind is in another abstract parallel universe is a heart-wrenching reality that individuals with schizophrenic live through.

And one that I am certain I’d completely lose myself in.

Unfortunately, he is among the 1% of the United States’ population who are affected by schizophrenia. He was only 19. And prior to the incident in 2008, he displayed bizarre behaviors that we now know are symptoms of schizophrenia. These behaviors, my family and I thought, were a result of being beaten by some guys in the few weeks beforehand. After being beaten, his forehead — the exterior of his frontal lobe — protruded. And those who know an inkling of information about the frontal lobe knows that any damage and chemical imbalances of the frontal lobe affects an individual’s reasoning and other cognitive skills.

The unusual symptoms he exhibited and his behaviors after being incarcerated categorized him as having Paranoid Schizophrenia. Professor Zane describes in Abnormal Psychology, “Paranoid Schizophrenia is characterized by one or more systematized delusions or auditory hallucinations and the absence of such symptoms as disorganized speech and behavior or flat affect.”

Likewise, Sam continues to show little to no emotion over time and hears voices; some of which tells him to do bizarre things. In our case, the voices in his head told him that I was possessed and that he needed to save me.

As a result, he is now incarcerated, I am paralyzed, and my family is torn between their beloved son/brother and daughter/sister.

As with every unfortunate situation, this could have all been avoided. Even though my family and I were unaware of what was going on with Sam, we were concerned. We asked other family members for help. We even went to our high school officials hoping that they’d have information.

Where are people supposed to go for help if they don’t know the exact help they need? Why are we still unaware of mental illness? I lost my last thread of hope when the schools’ police officer said he couldn’t help because nothing happened for the police to be concerned. Wasn’t our concern enough for them to help point us into any direction but despair?

As if that was some magical or karma-induced advice, it took my brother’s first mental episode of attacking me for officers or anyone to intervene.

After being injured and left wheelchair-bound, I never and still do not want my brother to be in prison.

All I wanted, and still want, is for my brother to receive proper help. Unfortunately, it is not my call and is left up to the legal system even though I am the “so-called” victim.

After the lengthy trial process, my brother was sentenced to 25 years in prison where he sits in the stool next to me eating a Snickers ice cream we got out of the vending machine. We sit and engage in a light conversation while he focuses on eating. And out of nowhere he laughs.

“What’s funny?” I ask him. He stares back at me blankly as if he sees a ghost. I snap him out of it by asking the same question.

“Nothing. It’s a secret,” he says.

After finishing his ice cream, he chants, “In the past thirty billion seconds whatever bad that happens, let it be forgotten and never return again.” He says this a few times, every time he finishes a food item. After every line, he snaps his fingers and beats his chest. This sort of behavior began after his third relapse here in the Vacaville Medical Facility and continues to this day. It doesn’t matter to me what he did — especially since it was done to me.

What matters is not only being my own voice but a voice for my brother; a voice that he’s lost because of the voices in his mind.

This is Lisa’s first Medium piece. Please follow her here.

Next in The Lighthouse: “I’m turning 30. And I live in a monastery.”