My dad had schizophrenia – people would always ask me the same infuriating question

I’ve long been interrogated about the possibility of inheriting schizophrenia (Picture: Layla Nicholson)

‘Aren’t you worried that you’re going to turn out mad like your dad?’

My stomach dropped. It was happening again.

I’d just revealed to a new friend over drinks that my father was under section as a result of his schizophrenia – and what was supposed to be a casual night cap left me feeling deeply uncomfortable.

This wasn’t the first time someone had asked me whether I’m concerned about inheriting my dad’s condition.

In fact, it’s a question I’ve had to swallow and respond to far too many times across the course of my life, forcing me to reply: ‘No, I’m confident in my own mind’. 

I always knew my dad was ‘different’. I never lived with him – my parents separated when I was born – but he was in and out of hospital (and of my life in general) a lot, including being sectioned every year from 2010 to 2024.

When I was five, my mum told me that Dad was ‘not very well’ with something called ‘schizophrenia’ and that’s why he ‘does strange things sometimes’. 

This gave me insight into why – sometimes – he secured tape over camera lenses and believed that people in the car behind were ‘following’ him.

People were aware of my dad’s ill-health. I heard numerous times from my friends’ parents – and even family members – that it was ‘a shame that he was like that’, and I learned from a young age to veer away from conversations about him. 

When I was five, my mum told me that Dad was ‘not very well’ with something called ‘schizophrenia’ (Picture: Layla Nicholson)

Dad was never present for any of the landmark moments of my childhood – except when he turned up, unkempt and unannounced, one Sports Day when I was about six. I saw heads turn and people whispering, ‘Is that Layla’s dad?’.

I started crying in fear he’d say or do anything ‘strange’ – and what people would think of that. Nothing happened, but the possibility was anxiety-inducing enough. 

Having dinner at a friend’s house when I was about eight, I remember one nosey mother asking me ‘when was the last time you saw Dad?’. I simply replied ‘I can’t remember’, hoping to move the conversation on quickly.

I worried that, not only were people thinking my dad is ‘bonkers’ – there could be a presumption that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

I learned from a young age to veer away from conversations about Dad (Picture: Layla Nicholson)

As it turned out, I was right on the money – because that presumption manifested in my teenage years, and has gone on to plague me in adulthood.

When I first went to secondary school, I never mentioned my dad. In my mid-teens, I began to tell trusted friends the truth – but it inevitably got out. One student in my year called me ‘the girl with the schizo dad.’

Conversations with friends weren’t much better, through a lack of understanding on their part and not wanting to get ‘too deep’ on mine. 

‘He’s a bit nutty like you then, Lay’, they’d say. I would laugh it off with my go-to response: ‘Like father, like daughter’. 

My older sister was the next of kin for Dad – but when she moved to the US in 2018, the baton was passed to me, and I became his carer. I was 18. 

Suddenly, the days of me keeping my dad’s illness a secret were behind me (Picture: Layla Nicholson)

My days would consist of communicating with care teams, meticulously looking for signs to indicate whether he was stable or not, and going with him to appointments. I did this for eight years, with Dad going in and out of hospital every single year.

Suddenly, the days of me keeping my dad’s illness a secret were behind me; there were bigger fish to fry than worrying what people thought of him and, by association, me. 

Not to mention, my dad was more than his illness and deserved to be treated as such. He was incredibly intelligent, loved music and hated bad coffee.  

But the stigma was far from over.

I’m not ‘mad by proxy’; nor was my dad ‘mad’ at all (Picture: Layla Nicholson)

A post-12am smoking area conversation about mental health at a bar lured me into opening up about it all. One lad I’d just met laughed and asked if I had ‘daddy issues’.

A similar encounter played out at a different bar when a guy started chatting to my friend and I, and I told him about Dad. He responded by asking if I was ‘crazy too’.

One family member told me ‘you don’t want to end up like your dad’ when I became low over him being in hospital again; and, of course, there was that conversation at the bar when I was asked if I worry about going ‘mad’ by proxy of my dad’s condition.

Schizophrenia can, sometimes, be inherited, and these conversations would leave me staring desperately at the NHS symptoms page. Each time, I talked myself down from these panics by reminding myself that I am ok and not an extension of my dad’s illness.

My dad was more than his condition; and I’m certainly not his illness either (Picture: Layla Nicholson)

But the worst thing about the comments was that they dehumanised my dad and ignored the extreme depths of illness that he had to endure. It was like he and his experiences didn’t matter. 

When Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 2025, the responses began to change. Friends and family members would ask, ‘How is Dad doing?’ and ‘What care is he receiving?’.

Needless to say, at no point did anyone ask me if I’d inherit cancer. So why had I long been interrogated about the possibility of inheriting schizophrenia?

Dad died in September last year – a cruel tragedy that I am still navigating – and the outpouring of love and compassion was truly touching. It was something I’d rarely experienced before in correlation to him. 

But schizophrenia is still entrenched in stigma. Rethink Mental Illness reports that 88% of people with severe mental illness have found stigma and discrimination to be widespread, and 94% feel they’ve been treated differently because of their illness.

I can’t single-handedly change that. 

What I can do is share our story in hopes that severe mental illness is a little more understood. 

I’m not ‘mad by proxy’; nor was my dad ‘mad’ at all. He was just, at times, unwell – and that doesn’t mean I am or will be.

My closest friends understand this and have always shown up for me with a hug or a listening ear.

But Dad carried the stigma of his condition for a huge portion of his life; and I’ll carry it for all of mine until people have a better grasp of mental illness – not just mental health. 

My father was more than his condition; and I’m certainly not his illness either.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

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