I was the big sister. Two months prem, and they worried about my health as a baby, but I grew up into a big strong bruiser. Diagnosed autistic whenI was about three or four, but only found out recently, when my son was diagnosed asperger's.

Was always considered odd, bullied badly as a child, including at times by my family... who didn't mean any harm, but were still very hurtful. There was some physical violence growing up, but I don't want to talk about it.

I was considered the "golden child", since I was very bright and articulate (when I finally started talking that is.) My family expected me to do very well. I went to Oxford, and they thought I was going to make them all proud. My poor brother was always in my shadow growing up, which was completely unfair, as he's a bright, articulate, very intelligent man. I think the inferiority complex they built into him pushed him to achieve as much as he has. He's the one who ended up making the family proud, and I ended up the black sheep. The turning point was my mother's suicide. My brother buried himself in work and discipline, I cracked up, and have been dealing with psychosis ever since. About twenty years. I managed to rationalise my delusions and hallucinations and hide them from people for the most part, though anyone who knew me realised I wasn't the full shilling after a while. This caused trouble at work. My second husband steered me a safe course, and for the most part I was able to be a good loving mother and kind wife. Sadly, my husband died, and I completely cracked up. In retrospect, it's like watching a raw egg fall in slow motion. You can see the mess coming, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Eventually I had to face my illness, because everything was coming to pieces. I knew I had to be a mother for my son, particularly since he also was bereaved, and he has his own mental health differences. He's got aspergers, dyspraxia, and I'm convinced suffers off and on from depression. He's several times mentioned delusions, obsessive thoughts, and thoughts of suicide. So, I finally came clean with the doctors, and within the last year have found myself again. I was always there behind the illness, always loved my son... now I can be there for him as a responsible adult, rather than a scared child.

Things are still difficult. I still have anxieties, occasional delusions, and a couple of times a month I'll have some kind of hallucination. But I can cope with them now, since I know they're not real. I'll have to stay on the meds at least till my son is grown up, since I want to see him safe to adulthood before I risk relapse by reducing my meds.

Since I've been mentally improving I've been able to be friends with my brother again, who funnily enough is one of my greatest allies, even despite our years of sibling rivalry. It's sad looking back on all the things that might have been, and the life I never had, because my illness stripped me of organisational and life skills. Sometimes I look at my brother and think, "why did I have to be ill? I could have been like him." But I'm coming to terms with it. So, in many ways my family think of me as a disappointment. What was the point of all that study and early promise if I was going to end up on disability, working part time voluntary because I can't cope with "real work"... but then what's the point of wondering what might have been? I only make myself unhappy by doing so, and all I have to work with is what I have now. Which is a functioning adult, paying her bills, raising her son, and ignoring the occasional voice or ghouley in the shadows. I do have a life now, for which I'm grateful.