would end up living on the street when they were gone. Their estate was not large, but we were able to move a small rental they owned into a trust and a few years later, I was finally successful at getting brother's Social Security disability approved. My dad died at peace knowing that his most vulnerable son had a home for life.

I made brother's car payments during one of his hospitalizations and subsequent extended recovery. He never paid me back, I never asked him. He's my brother. He was scared of his environment after one hospitalization and said on release that he would feel safe with me. Bought him an airline ticket and he stayed with me for a few weeks before he got to feeling safe enough to go home to Texas. He was nervous and wanted me to buy a firearm to protect him while he was with me.  I declined and persuaded him we were safe without one in the house.

We are very close. He and his wife come to stay with us for a week or two every year for a good visit. He's 3 years younger, but looks older than me I am told. I think his tobacco habit is going to kill him, but it helps with the voices, so I sit on the porch and visit, breathe second hand smoke and tease him. I grew up in a smoking household, I like a little second hand smoke. And I love my baby brother. It has been clear for decades that the mental health system does not value him like I do. He's a crazy person by DSM IV standards, but that's not all that he is. None of the diagnoses really fit his presentation, but anti-psychotics and anti-depressants have been generally good for him.

I am sure that some of my passion for fighting for the underdog relates to the life experience that my brother and I share with the systems that exist at least nominally to take care of folks with debilitating mental illness.