Today is World Mental Health Day, so it seems an opportune time to bring the topic out of the dark cupboard and shine some light on it. This year’s focus is schizophrenia, and as some may know, I have a close relationship with that topic in the form of my mom.

There is still a great deal of shame shrouding mental illness — especially severe conditions like schizophrenia — but even quite common conditions like depression and anxiety are not subjects to bring up at job interviews or dinner parties.

I was ashamed of my mom’s condition when I was a kid. She made random conversation with perfect strangers, laughed at jokes only she could hear, talked under her breath to her “voices,” and dressed like hippie vagabond — with a dozen clunky necklaces, multiple rings on every finger, and brightly mismatched skirts and blouses. I developed a quiet tolerance for her behavior, but underneath my bemused smile I was angry and confused.

For years she was undiagnosed, or mis-diagnosed. But even when the label schizophrenia was applied, no one was able to explain what that meant, apart from symptoms like voices and paranoid delusions. And there was still this myth that you just had to take your medication and you would get better.

People with chronic mental health conditions don’t get better, they manage symptoms. A person who suffers from depression can be helped immensely by medication, and remission may last for years, but there is always the possibility of a relapse. A person with schizophrenia is lucky if they can function in the world, even with medication. My mom can’t.

In the 1970’s my mom worked at health food stores, bakeries, and diners. Many of her jobs didn’t last long, but the health food store became like a family for her over the years. Eventually ownership changed, and she went to work as a hotel maid. Whatever glue that held her mind together enough to function in minimum wage jobs dissolved in the early 1980’s, when her delusions became her world.

It would take a whole book to describe what it was like living with my mom in the 80’s (one that I hope to write someday), but suffice to say it was stressful. I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety since I was a kid, but didn’t realize how deeply living with my mother affected me until I started seeing a therapist 10 years ago. I also have symptoms of ptsd. You don’t make it through someone else’s mental illness unscathed.

But it didn’t have to be that way. If I had been educated about my mother’s condition and taught skills for coping, it might have been easier. If she had had access to effective therapy, she may not have had to be hospitalized quite so often. But we were in North Idaho and poor. These options simply weren’t on offer. So we lived through it.

The more people are educated about the realities of mental illness, the better. The ability to recognize symptoms, get people the help they need, and cope with the psychological fallout can help everyone — not just the mentally ill, also but those of us who share homes and lives with them.