Have you ever had the chance to step inside a psychiatric ward? If you haven’t, let me describe it for you. The walls are painted in a dull, neutral off-white. Each room is stripped of any items that could potentially be used as weapons—think electrical cords, thin sheets, shoes, and even pencils. In one corner of the room, there’s a television encased in a durable plastic box. The mattresses are covered in plastic, and patients receive flimsy scrubs instead of their regular clothes.
Now, envision an eight-year-old child. Picture that child growing inside you for nine months, transforming you into a mother. One evening, something shifts dramatically, and you find her standing atop the couch with a knife, about the length of your forearm.
Contrary to what some may think, my child hasn’t experienced abuse. She wasn’t left to self-soothe as an infant; every scrape and bruise was met with kindness and nurturing. Dinner options are as varied as macaroni and cheese to Spaghetti-Os. I have no expectations of her calling me “mommy dearest” or asking her to clean the kitchen with a toothbrush.
My daughter is exceptionally bright. She reads at levels beyond her age and possesses a remarkable ability to empathize. When her ailing great-grandfather began to lose his sight, she showed him a tenderness rarely seen in children her age.
So why is it that I carry an overwhelming, soul-crushing guilt for seeking help that I can no longer provide? If a child is hospitalized for pneumonia or measles, parents are not judged. Why should it be any different for a child struggling with an invisible illness?
Mothers are not meant to hand their children over to strangers during emotional chaos. It feels inherently wrong to step back when all you want to do is “fix” what’s wrong. Each day, I watch the clock, anticipating one of the three moments I can speak with her. I find myself pacing, anxious to know which version of my daughter I will hear—will she be furious with me, or will she be sobbing, pleading to come home?
Can you fathom telling your child they can’t return home? I am in a perpetual state of turmoil, unable to concentrate on anything other than that little human I cannot heal. Is she eating properly? Are the nurses treating her with kindness? Handing over my child feels like saying, “good luck,” while the ongoing pandemic prevents me from visiting to offer her a semblance of comfort and familiarity.
I feel the weight of the words I long to express building up inside me. The pressure is so intense it feels like I might suffocate. I finally take pen to paper, carefully selecting each word as if they were delicate pearls, crafting them into a message that conveys my feelings accurately.
Moments of strength return, if only briefly, to comfort her as she cries on the other end of the line. I remind her of my love and that our only hope is to help calm the storm raging within her.
Well-meaning family members suggest brain scans and blood tests. The barrage of questions about her treatment duration and medication adjustments is almost enough to push me over the fragile edge I’m trying to maintain. Mental illness is not straightforward. There isn’t always a clear “trigger.” Seeking a diagnosis often brings more comfort to the adults than it does to the child. Medication is not a one-size-fits-all solution. Even if we find something that alleviates symptoms, it won’t necessarily offer a cure.
This storm disrupts the foundation we rely on. Cracks are beginning to appear, and I worry that one day, she won’t be the only one caught in the eye of the hurricane.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the emotional turmoil of having an eight-year-old daughter hospitalized in a psychiatric facility. Despite providing a loving home, she grapples with guilt and fear over her child’s mental health struggles, navigating the complexities of seeking help while battling societal judgments.