Are dinosaurs real?” My twenty-eight-year-old son appeared

in the room where I was folding laundry. He drew in a labored

breath. It seemed as though he might spontaneously combust

right there in front of me, so his tight exhale came as a

relief for both of us.

“Hey, kiddo, what a nice surprise. What’s up?” His visit

was unexpected, as it was only mid-day and he’d not been

home much since the move to his new apartment in Burbank

the previous month. Something felt amiss. His lanky frame

stooped forward; his hands jammed into his pockets.

“The dinosaurs . . . I mean, I’m not sure,” he whispered,

his eyes darted right to see if anyone else was in the room.

Instinct slowed me. “Sure, honey, they’re . . . they were

very real.” He didn’t speak then, so I continued. “Right? I

mean you’ve seen so many cartoons and Jurassic Park type

movies; it’s probably easy to forget that you learned about

dinosaurs in school.” I watched him draw in another breath

while nodding his head. He turned away from me and clicked

on the television. The moment passed quickly.

I have no recollection of how I processed that. I guess

I didn’t. A door had slammed shut in my head, and I simply

blocked the dark thing that had announced its presence

as a mere flicker of fear on my son’s face. Those early years

were filled with bits and pieces of abstract information that

would come and go. It was a clue that tweaked my logic

and yet . . . I had to let it go.

Looking back, twelve years is a long road—an information

overload on a journey both terrifying and bewildering, but

as in any crisis, life comes at you one day at a time so as not

to break you all at once. It took years for Jake to be properly

diagnosed and medicated. Schizophrenia is a brain disease.

It has taken so much from all of us, and recently it occurred to

me that writing a book might be the answer. He’d always had

a way with words and of uniquely expressing his ideas . . . but

could he stay focused on a project these days, long enough

to see it through? And could dredging up the past open the

Pandora’s box of paranoia that dogs Jake every moment of

the day and night? This book was his idea, the concept of

schizophrenia from a family perspective, a journal moving

back and forth between mother and son. He felt it should be

written in brief chapters so as not to overwhelm a reader who

has symptoms like his. This would be a comfort food for those

lonely moments when you feel different from everyone else

on the planet.

The writing process was cathartic for Jake, as well as

disruptive, in that reliving his experiences did indeed kick off

some pretty substantial waves of depression and paranoia.

Nevertheless, he persevered, saying that he wanted and

needed to keep writing to get his story out there. It is this bravery

I am in awe of every day.

During the time it took to finish this book, all of us have

gone through a great deal: political unrest, a worldwide pandemic,

and environmental chaos. To the average person, we

are shaken . . . but for those with mental illness, it is a minefield

of triggers to the dark side. With so much yet unanswered in

the quest to find peace in a brain that is at war within itself,

we journey on together ever seeking the path that will bring

mental illness out of the dark ages and into the light. Oh,

we’re waking up, and it’s in vogue to make statements on

social media declaring allegiance, but we’re searching with

a flashlight. If you or a loved one is experiencing this battle,

then you are well aware what we are up against, and it is a

lonely and scary war indeed. This book is for Jake and for you.

In the Beginning

Jake

Everything that occurred prior to the onset of schizophrenia

was perfect. A dream. A vanilla sky of creation. Since I was

nine years old and on into my twenties, before there were

YouTube careers and Instagram advertising partners, I was

churning out videos by the hundreds in hopes of getting a

laugh from my parents, sisters, or friends.

I had a solid troupe of actors at my disposal. Mainly my

family. My youngest sister, Molly, was the Meryl Streep of the

bunch. She was passionate, devoted, and able to take direction

like nobody’s business. Today, she’s a successful television

actress. My sister Becky took a little more arm twisting to be

in a video, but she was always hilarious. These days she’s a

television producer.

One of the best McCook movies was Grandma Baba.

Molly wore an old man mask with a wig and a prim dress and

wreaked havoc on her grandkid’s social life with constant flatulence

and raiding of the family fridge. One cannot forget the

unsettling trilogy I made with my best buddy “Stomachache”

where two friends binge eat and then vomit on screen for an

uncomfortable amount of time.

These were the bookmarks of my emotional life. If I was

frustrated with my social life, I would make a movie about

twins that worked out their relationship issues on a split screen.

If I needed to exorcise my demons, I would make a music

video and spastically dance or wildly lip sync to some current

pop song.

It was what I needed. It was my drug of choice, and I

couldn’t stop. I was hooked. Maybe it was being able to control

people. All of it. My true friends were a video camera, a

computer, and a jumble of studio lights. It was insulation that

protected me from the outside world—the distraction from an

adult life that would one day steal my joy, my independence,

and my dreams of a world where anything was possible.