Five months into dating Happiness, I learned that his younger brother had experienced psychosis two years earlier. Until then, our relationship had been admirable, it was built on love, respect, and mutual support. I loved Happiness dearly and he adores me. Happiness was calm and steady, the kind of man who opened doors I never imagined entering. But that revelation made me pause and question everything.
A Yoruba adage says, “Kò lè tán lára ọmọ ọba kó má kú dánsákí; kò lè tán lára were kó má kú gángàngan díẹ̀ díẹ̀.”. What if it runs in the family and their genes? I worried about my unborn children and found myself absorbing society’s belief that mental illness taints an entire lineage, though I know it might be a predisposing factor but I shouldn’t destroy what is a good for the fear of the unknown?
I began to see Happiness differently not because he changed, but because stigma planted suspicion in my heart. Silence became a warning; thoughtfulness looked like a symptom. Ironically, his brother was doing well, treated, recovered, and hopeful he is lecturing in a new university in Ogun state. Still, I had already marked him, reducing his identity to his previous diagnosis.
That was when I understood: stigma does not only harm those with mental illness; it spreads outward, breaking relationships and turning love into fear. My anxiety was less about genetics and more about shame, about whispers, judgment, and blame.
Mental illness does not destroy society. Stigma does. And perhaps healing will begin when we stop asking, “What if it runs in the family?” and start asking, “What if it were my own?”
‘Fiyinfoluwa Olajolo MSc (CAMH) is a mental health therapist.
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