Chapter 1: The Tragic Farewell

Three Christmases ago, my brother's life came to an abrupt end at a train station in Birmingham, UK. It was five days before we learned of his death. CCTV footage captured him standing on the tracks, waiting for the train. Authorities had been unable to identify him until someone came to claim his body.

He was born over 40 years ago in Bulgaria, a country grappling with its own struggles, unwanted from the start. His life was marred by abuse and neglect from an early age—first by my father and grandparents, then by me, his older sister, who was consumed by jealousy. He faced relentless bullying from peers and adults alike, which only exacerbated his feelings of isolation.

At the age of 18, he fell ill while studying in Sofia, although we didn't recognize the signs until much later. I was preoccupied with my own life, trying to navigate newfound independence after our parents showed little concern for anything beyond our grades. As Bulgaria transitioned to democracy, I reveled in the vibrancy of life, while he remained trapped within the confines of our shared apartment.

The first sign of his struggle was a panic attack. "I'm scared! I'm scared!" he cried, shaking uncontrollably. My mother was present, and soon an ambulance arrived.

I remember walking through the sterile halls of the psychiatric hospital, a dismal place that felt reminiscent of a dark science fiction story. The psychiatrist was focused on coercing my mother into signing a consent form for electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) for my brother, who was clearly not in a position to make such a decision. My heart raced as I attempted to advocate for counseling instead, having learned about it from American books. Yet in 1992 Bulgaria, this concept was foreign.

The doctor, dismissive and rude, barked, "What do you know about treating patients?" He insisted that my brother needed his brain "sorted" before he could even consider therapy. My mother, in tears, signed the paper, believing it would cure him. I felt powerless.

After months in the hospital, my brother returned home, but he was a shadow of his former self. The ECT had robbed him of his short-term memory, and he could no longer concentrate on reading or drawing. My mother moved in to care for him, administering daily doses of medication that seemed to do more harm than good. He became a recluse, spending endless hours staring at the TV.

"You can't just increase his medication without consulting the doctor," I warned my mother, but she felt she understood his needs better than anyone. Years of living with his illness had given her a false sense of expertise.

Despite his struggles, my brother graduated with a master's degree in Accounting and World Economy, but he became just another statistic in a pool of unemployed professionals. His former classmates found success, while he remained isolated, often unable to even manage errands.

My brother occasionally found work but struggled to keep it. Even when he was offered a position at a local KFC, he was let go for not working quickly enough. It seemed that the world had no place for him, and I felt helpless watching him retreat further into himself.

Chapter 2: A New Hope?

This video titled "I Saved My Brother's Life" explores the emotional turmoil faced by family members of those suffering from mental illness. It reflects on the impact of mental health issues on relationships and the feelings of helplessness experienced by loved ones.

In the video "I SAVED MY BROTHER'S LIFE!", the narrator discusses the heart-wrenching decisions made in the face of a loved one’s struggles, shedding light on the complexities of family dynamics and responsibility.

After a series of job rejections, my brother found a temporary position at a school for underprivileged children, where he helped teach computer skills. This seemed like a turning point for him, providing a semblance of purpose. However, the reality was that he was still deeply marginalized, both by his colleagues and the community.

Meanwhile, I had moved to the UK, striving to carve out my own identity. As I indulged in the luxuries of life, my brother remained in Bulgaria, reliant on our mother’s meager pension. The news of my father’s unexpected death only compounded the tragedy.

My brother faced scorn from neighbors and was often left alone, with only our mother to care for him. Criminal elements in our building made life even more precarious, but he had no one to turn to for help.

As I built a life for myself, the burden of my brother's suffering weighed heavily on my conscience. My mother would often call, relaying tales of his erratic behavior and emotional turmoil. I felt powerless as he descended deeper into despair.

Eventually, it became clear that my brother was struggling with something more complex than I had initially understood. I began to wonder if his diagnosis of schizophrenia was accurate. After much debate, we sought a second opinion from a progressive psychiatrist who brought a fresh perspective to our situation.

Yet, even this new doctor insisted on the original diagnosis. Frustrated, I turned to research, trying to understand the myriad mental health conditions that might explain my brother's behavior. I began to contemplate the possibility of bipolar disorder, which seemed to align with his patterns of mood swings and erratic actions.

The realization hit me like a thunderbolt. We had overlooked a critical aspect of his health for years.

As I prepared to confront my brother's doctor and push for a reassessment, tragedy struck. Shortly after my return to the UK, my brother went missing. The police informed us that he had died in an accident at the same train station where we had once shared laughter and memories.

The weight of grief has been unbearable. I find myself reflecting on the choices I've made, the moments I could have stepped in to help, and the opportunities I let slip away. Perhaps if I had acted differently, my brother would still be here today.

In the end, I am left with the stark reality of loss, grappling with the guilt of my inaction and the burden of responsibility that I now understand too late.

In the aftermath of this tragedy, I have come to terms with the complexity of love and responsibility. My journey has taught me valuable lessons about compassion, understanding, and the importance of being present for those we care about. It is a painful reminder that life is fleeting, and we must cherish every moment.

Merry Christmas—until we meet again.