After securing a psychiatric bed for your child in North Carolina, you might wonder what to expect. Unfortunately, a week-long stay may yield only a handful of medications and minimal insight into a challenging chapter of your life.
When we took our son, Ethan, to a psychiatric facility three hours from home following a significant breakdown at school, we were filled with anxiety and tears. Ethan was transported by local authorities, while we tried to distract ourselves with music during the drive.
Our visit was brief—just 10 minutes—where Ethan pleaded with us not to leave, his eyes red and swollen from stress and exhaustion. I reassured him that I would write daily, emphasizing my love and commitment. We repeated a familiar conversation:
Ethan: “This feels like punishment.”
Me: “It’s not a punishment; it’s a consequence. Remember why you’re here.”
Ethan: “Yeah.”
Me: “We want to prevent what happened at school from repeating, right?”
Ethan: “Yeah.”
Despite his bravery, it was heartbreaking to see him cry more than I had ever witnessed before. We signed the necessary paperwork in a haze, exchanging glances filled with uncertainty and dread.
Ethan had never been away from home for an extended period. He had only spent a few nights at friends’ houses, always in accommodating environments. At the facility, however, he was stripped of his comfort items, as everything was viewed as a potential risk. I understood the need for precautions to ensure safety, but the lack of empathy towards parents was disheartening.
It felt as if I was relinquishing my child to a prison rather than a treatment center. Communication was limited: two phone calls each week for five minutes and 20-minute visits on Sundays. In my experience over the past month—and particularly the last 11 years—treating mental illness is a collaborative effort. Yet, the facility in Jacksonville seemed to disregard this principle.
In the weeks following Ethan’s stay, we bounced between various doctors, dealing with incorrect medication dosages that led to adverse reactions. Thankfully, our pediatrician was able to rectify a significant error before Ethan suffered further. We are now in a holding pattern until he can begin treatment at a new facility in two weeks, where every day feels like a precarious balancing act.
During his time in the psychiatric unit, Ethan received a heavy regimen of antipsychotics, spent much of his time in tears, and was eventually discharged with the label of “stable.” The discharge process lasted mere minutes. Despite my daily letters, he received none until the day before he left. To our shock, we learned after five days that some of his clothing had been deemed inappropriate, forcing him to wear the same shorts, now worn and tattered, throughout his stay. The books we had requested never made it to him. What small comforts were allowed turned out to be unreliable.
Although we encountered a few helpful staff members, the majority of our interactions felt adversarial.
Feeling Overwhelmed and Outmatched
My husband and I have come to realize, albeit perhaps too late, that despite our dedication and knowledge, we are often outpaced by Ethan’s mental health challenges. He has disruptive mood dysregulation disorder (DMDD), a relatively new diagnosis within mental health. I often explain his condition by saying he has a car but only two speeds: a crawl with minimal gas or full throttle. The transition from anxiety to rage for him is perilously swift.
We are trapped in a turbulent relationship with Ethan’s mental illness. Yet, he is our child, and there is no option to walk away. He is still developing, and at times, I genuinely believe he is unaware of his actions, overwhelmed by persistent anxiety and executive function difficulties.
That’s why we had to take him to the emergency room; we needed help.
As his mother, I will always be his advocate. He may not always comprehend our decisions, often viewing them as punishment instead of assistance, but he knows I will stand by him. One emotional phone call from the facility revealed just how much he missed me, a realization that seemed to surprise him.
This experience has left him fearful of medical environments, making even a simple pediatric appointment a monumental task. Although he expresses his love for me more frequently, he continues to grapple with daily challenges. Each moment can feel precarious, with outcomes that are impossible to predict, making it hard to justify the entire experience.
We had hoped for support and compassion, but instead, we faced discouragement and a stark reminder that this journey is just beginning.
Assessing the Experience
Ultimately, the psychiatric bed was, in many respects, an exercise in futility. While I recognize not all facilities operate this way, the overall system offers parents little choice. The reality is grim: hundreds of children compete for limited beds, often emerging confused and medicated rather than healed.
We never expected a magical solution, but we did anticipate gaining insights into our child. Instead, we found a focus on mere “stability,” a term that is challenging to quantify.
One of Ethan’s favorite songs is “Somewhere Only We Know” by the band Keane. This song encapsulates my relationship with him. Parents of children with mental health issues live a reality that is often unimaginable to others.
During this ordeal, people often said to me, “I can’t imagine.” But I do. I live it daily. Each phone call brings the potential for crisis, every new side effect raises alarm, and each night involves calming my own fears about worst-case scenarios.
What I have learned through this ongoing journey is that I am not alone. Many parents feel isolated, afraid, and utterly exhausted from the relentless fight for their child’s well-being.
The U.S. healthcare system is failing our children, and it’s shocking to peers worldwide that this is how we treat our youth. I recognize that fixing this is not an easy task, and many remind me that we have “work to do.” However, it’s unacceptable that we have reached this point. We are failing children from all backgrounds, especially those without resources like my family, who constantly worry about job security and financial stability. What I observed at Ethan’s facility seemed more like preparation for incarceration than genuine care.
Finding Community and Solutions
For the past four years, our family has been fortunate to be part of the Hope Creek Academy community. In a recent conversation with someone from the North Carolina Hospital Association, I finally articulated what I’ve long believed: Hope Creek Academy has given Ethan a childhood—a luxury so many children with similar struggles are denied. The relentless grind of public schooling can drain the joy from children like Ethan, leaving them exhausted mentally, physically, and spiritually.
While we did not prevent his breakdown or cure his illness, we have provided him with understanding and support from compassionate teachers and peers who truly get it.
We cannot solve the healthcare crisis on our own, but we can advocate for more schools like Hope Creek Academy and the Wright School. We can push for increased funding to help more children access the support they need.
My advice: find your community. Seek out those who understand your struggles. It may not always be family, and they might be far away, but we all need support. Together, we can demand better education and healthcare for our children. Their childhood is fleeting, and they are remarkable yet vulnerable beings.
In conclusion, navigating the complexities of mental health care for children is a daunting journey filled with challenges and uncertainties. However, by seeking support and advocating for change, we can strive for a better future for our children and families.