Have you ever been inside a psychiatric ward? If not, let me describe it for you. The walls are a dull, off-white color, and the rooms lack any items that could be used as weapons. This includes everything from electrical cords to shoes and even pencils. In the corner of the room hangs a television encased in thick plastic. The mattresses are covered in plastic, and patients wear thin, paper-like scrubs instead of their usual clothes.
Now, imagine an eight-year-old child. Picture that child growing inside you for nine months, and how they transformed you into a mother. One evening, everything changes, and you find her standing on the couch with a knife that’s nearly the size of your forearm.
Despite what you might think, my child has not been abused. She wasn’t neglected or left to self-soothe as a baby. Every scrape was treated with love and care. Her dinner options range from macaroni and cheese to Spaghetti-Os. I don’t expect her to call me “mommy dearest” or ask her to scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush.
My daughter is bright and intelligent. She’s reading well above her grade level and shows remarkable empathy. When her sick great-grandfather started losing his eyesight, she cared for him with a gentleness that’s rare for someone her age.
So why do I feel an overwhelming guilt for seeking help that I can no longer provide? If a child is hospitalized for pneumonia or measles, parents aren’t judged. Why should it be any different for a child grappling with an invisible illness?
Mothers are instinctively driven to “fix” what’s wrong with their children. Each day, I find myself anxiously watching the clock, waiting for one of the three times I can talk to her. I pace back and forth, wondering which version of her I’ll encounter. Will she be angry with me, or will she cry uncontrollably, begging to come home?
Can you imagine telling your child they can’t return home? I live in a constant state of distress, unable to think about anything other than that little human I can’t heal. Is she eating well? Are the staff treating her kindly? Not only have I entrusted my child into someone else’s care, but the ongoing pandemic prevents me from visiting her, robbing her of any sense of familiarity.
The words I long to express weigh heavily on my chest, so dense that it’s hard to breathe. Eventually, I take pen to paper, carefully crafting my thoughts as if they were delicate pearls, each one sliding into place until they form an accurate representation of my feelings.
Strength, though fleeting, returns as I comfort her over the phone, reminding her of my love and our hope to help quell the storm raging within her. Well-meaning family members suggest brain scans and blood tests. Their rapid questions about her treatment and length of stay only add to my anxiety.
Mental illness is complex and not always straightforward. There isn’t a clear “trigger.” Seeking a diagnosis can bring temporary relief, but medication is not a universal solution. Even if we find something that alleviates her symptoms, it won’t cure her.
This tumultuous storm is shaking the very foundation of our lives. Cracks are forming, and I worry that one day, she won’t be the only one caught in the hurricane.
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