Have you ever been inside a psychiatric ward? If not, let me describe it to you. The walls are painted a dull, neutral shade of off-white. Each room is stripped of anything that could be used as a weapon—no electrical cords, thin sheets, shoes, or pencils. A box covered in thick plastic hangs in the corner, protecting the television. Mattresses are encased in plastic, and patients wear paper-thin scrubs in place of their everyday clothes.
Now, imagine an eight-year-old child. Picture the little one who grew inside you for nine months, the one who made you a mother. One evening, her demeanor shifts dramatically, and you find her perched atop the couch, brandishing a knife the length of your forearm.
Contrary to what some may think, my child has not faced abuse. She wasn’t neglected as an infant; every scrape was met with love and care. Her meals range from macaroni and cheese to Spaghetti-Os, and I never expect her to call me “Mommy Dearest” or demand she clean the kitchen with a toothbrush.
My daughter is exceptionally bright. She has surpassed her reading levels and has an impressive capacity for empathy. When her ailing great-grandfather began to lose his sight, she cared for him with a tenderness rarely seen in someone her age.
So why do I feel such overwhelming guilt for seeking help that I can no longer provide? If a child is hospitalized for pneumonia or measles, parents are not judged. Why is it different when the illness is invisible, rooted in mental health?
Mothers are not meant to relinquish their children to strangers amid emotional chaos. It goes against our instinct to “fix” what’s troubling them. Every day, I count down the hours until I can speak with her, pacing restlessly and wondering which version of her I will get. Will she be angry, or will she cry, pleading for me to bring her home?
Imagine telling your child they can’t come home. I exist in a constant state of turmoil, unable to focus on anything but the well-being of that precious child I cannot heal. Is she eating properly? Are the staff treating her kindly? Not only have I had to leave her in someone else’s care, but the ongoing pandemic prevents me from visiting and offering any sense of comfort.
The weight of the words I want to express presses heavily on my chest. The pressure is so intense that it feels as if I might suffocate. Finally, I put pen to paper, carefully choosing each word like a delicate pearl, until they form an accurate portrayal of my feelings.
Moments of strength return, if only briefly, to comfort her as she sobs on the other end of the line. I remind her of my love and that our only hope is to help her calm the storm raging within her.
Well-meaning family members suggest brain scans and blood tests. The barrage of questions about her stay and medication adjustments threatens to push me over the edge. Mental illness isn’t straightforward. There isn’t always a clear trigger. Seeking a diagnosis often brings more comfort to the parents than a solution for the child. Medications aren’t a one-size-fits-all remedy. Even if a treatment alleviates some symptoms, it cannot provide a cure.
This emotional storm violently shakes the foundation we depend on. Cracks are beginning to form, and I fear that one day, she won’t be the only one caught in the hurricane’s eye.
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Summary:
This article explores the emotional turmoil faced by a mother whose eight-year-old daughter is in a psychiatric care facility. The mother expresses her feelings of guilt and helplessness while navigating the complex world of childhood mental health. She reflects on her daughter’s intelligence and empathy and grapples with the societal stigma surrounding mental illness. The piece highlights the struggle of letting go and seeking help, emphasizing the importance of support during such challenging times.
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